Suburbia. Sou-b-Urbia. Susususupp-Urbia.
That is how we know it. That typical area of so many variants of nothingness.
Nothingness of so many shades and colours.
A street, along the street buildings and fields, small shops and private industries – here it is a small saw mill, or rather just someone who owns a machine for cutting wood.
He rarely is in, but when he was, he was friendly with us strange ones.
Yet we might have been mistaken, as it is not at all certain that he saw us passing through.
This is suburbia, where the symbolic border of city and country meets the more porouse thresholds of plant life and built structures, new and decaying, taken over by plant life again.
It can be almost rustic, but then it sells its rustic capital to attract core families and green minded, middle class BoBos.
And once they move in, talking green but bringing their cars, rustic it will be no more.
We pass through it, more than once, for we do not feed off wood or gasoline or well meaning lies, we feed off the many divers micro-variants of suburban boredom.
The good kind.