Olde Wyche

In the city of the future, the walls will be electric, and the electric will be made of water. Fabulous wheels will spin and dot the horizon with their slow, methodical, and lethargic churnings. Vast wastelands of polished chrome will cover the ground, and high school kids will crash their bikes at every street corner to protest the curvature of those long beautiful avenues. Tall men will grow enormous hands and reach down from their balconies to clutch at passersby. In the city of the future, deep within the apartments of men too tall to leave them, all will be revealed. In the city of the future, revelations will come a dime-a-dozen, but will not be for the faint of heart.

In the city of the future, the women of the future will be born with gorgeous flowing gray hair, and most of the men of the future will remain the sons of the past, unable to appreciate the ways that the tall buildings of water curve languidly up from the ground to cradle and nurture all doubts and fears. In the city of the future, the cities of the past will be mocked and longed for by the intelligentsia, and the workers will have won the right to wear slick bodysuits and use telekinesis instead of machinery pulsing with electric water to raise up the great monuments of the future. Everyone will have a dog, maybe two, in the city of the future.

In the city of the future, the favored pastime will be watching the skies, and the people will delight in the reflections of clouds on the fields of chrome. Visions of tremendous cogs and wheels, made slick by hyper-refined sugars and sugar substitutes, will fill every view screen, and lunch will be the single meal of the day. In the city of the future, the sidewalks and curbs will remain damp, despite the triumph of forward thinking that has since convinced the sun to shine every day. In the city of the future, we’ll get a long just fine. In the city of the future, there will be a change of scenery.