Unclip the wings

I woke up another dimension in an unconventional time and reeked.

A young Rumanian girl with her family mingle on the metro while an elderly accordionist strolls by spouting anti-fascist anthems, without lyrics, such that unsuspecting passengers don't catch whiff of his "power to the people" chant. That gypsy family may not know it but they're getting empowered from it too -- and their stench is less offensive as they pile onto the metro. They become a majority --> the people, the workers, the foreigners, the different ones --> intermingling and intermarrying within their rung on the triangle. But the ones on top will never ride underground. And so whereas the fibers of the social fabric may shift color, smell and flavor, the shape and form remain pointy and distinguished like the Andes.

I thought life was a game and work was an occupation for caged birds. Radiant beauty not to be hidden, voracious cultural rapture, societal captivation igniting flares of conscientiousness in a sea of stale cages -- open, but filled with birds with clipped wings. UNCLIP THE WINGS.