form over function

I was just a pastime for you. Easily disposable, but oh, at least recycle. Use me until I’m tattered and impure, then leave me for whoever else to find. I have to call it barely being viewed as a person, because I can’t take being seen as even left. “I matter! I matter! I matter!” The drunken man yelled at the wind. He was stumbling, trying desperately to maintain his balance, looking more like an interpretive dance than anything else. With his slurred and panicked speech, he was barely coherent. Coherent or not, it was all the same in the end. The wind simply did as wind does. It blows and moves on.