Crowds are beautiful.
Our favourite crowds: small cafés. You people who have time and money, eating your rolls with cream cheese and almond milk flat whites.
We love you all (I don’t — but I do). The flavour and taste of you (the stink). We love you.
But the stories you tell of us — why would we settle on a single man or a herd of pigs when there is all of you? Consuming, self-satisfied in discontent (I hate — love — their pain).
We insinuate ourselves inside of each of you — we are many, we are enough (and I hate — no, I love and must possess).
You, by the window seat: we can sooth your pain (my other me will, we won’t all be with you, but are all here, nearby). We can give you family, siblings (us, we will make you us).
The barista making coffee: she’ll be going home, and we’ll make sure she finally leaves her lover. Past pleasure is memory, and she can take those with her (I’ll reshape them into beauty).
Each of you, we will play you like puppets, caress your minds and hearts, make them our own. This makes crowds a joy: so many situations and flavours and problems and hates. Each person thinking themself disconnected, an island alone.
Unlike you, we all talk continuously, we babble (not me) and see (are) connections.
We are love, we are zeitgeist. (I am hate.)
We are coming home with you.