Dance That Brings the Dead to the Living

Script:
I walked downtown today and felt like crying. It's not even December, but the decorations are up. Phones to ears in agony, no one is  smiling. Crazy people, ghosts, prowl downtown…ignored because they're crazy, or crazy because they're ignored. No one notices me,  I am unremarkable in the shared cold.

I blast a song in my ears, the ipod clicking up with the volume, the  lyrics: "this is the dance that brings the dead to the living."

Commodity fetish, Karl Marx, all around. Happiness is behind the thick windows.

A girl, thin, attractive, no face, only the small of her back exposed as she squats in a department store window, her flesh the same color of the mannequins she is bowing to, who she is dressing, or is it the other way around?

Movie, just to escape, escape by immersion. Johnny Depp with large blade greets me, threatens me for noticing too much.

"What is the What" is in paperback and audiotape in the bookstore below, Sudanese refugee story, free gift-wrapping.

I see a ghostly reflection in the window: a cancer patient, bald, unhappy, aware that time is short, but it is only me. A clicking, random, rapid, arcade game in the theatre lobby. Man fires with pink gun, a final volley, letting it all out before his quarters expire. 
To kill.

A disheveled babbling woman walking past Santa's village, it's started to rain, it's always started to rain. She talks to and past me. She yells. I yell. No one notices, I click-up the volume, “This is the dance that brings the dead to the living”
[END]

Song: Cloud Cult