Cities and Eyes IV

Whose eyes, in amongst this city, speak as this?

“First thing in the morning, and the world is gleaming. Look! The horizon is tickled pink with warm promises. The towers and scrapers cluster in mist, it clears, they admire each other in their own mirrors. Miracle-devices – bikes, buses, motorcars – roam the roads, while behind curtains closed, beautiful women straighten shirts, fasten bras. And into the mass of offices I shall go, admiring the features of each passing face, the majestic grandeur of the whole place. And I shall fill with smiles the people I know.”

Then, last thing at night, alone under a duvet, speak as this?

“Eyelids, let me look upon you, look soon; you, as alien to the earthly day as the cold distant moon. The secretaries are bored with me acting the clown, and Mister Manager looks on with a silent frown. The crowds are impatient, the busy bustle borderline-violent. The street is lined with litter underfoot, and the dirty air is aswirl with soot. Eyelids, come tight down like blank tiles. And over such questionning, come closing: When I woke and stared out with a smile - was that when I truly was dreaming?”

Answer to previous post’s question: the fifty foot woman.