I hear the sound of metal hitting metal, of machines whirring, of these urban cicadas singing.  Day and night, the workers, they come.  I pass by them on my way home from work.  They oftentimes will say hello to you, but I always ignore them because they anger me.  That is, of course, through no fault of their own.  Displacement is what you call it.

The skeletons of their buildings have cast shadows over our homes, breaking the wind and slowly blocking the sky out as they grow.  They have taken up all the space along the sidewalk, with mountains of cement here, and mixers and trucks there.  I, along with other pedestrians, am forced to step out onto the highway at my own risk because their obstacle course of construction materials is impossible to pass through.

Their banging and clanging can be heard three blocks away at three in the morning.  Their buildings are an eyesore.  The fliers that they give out, with the tagline “be the better neightbor!  Own a condo unit for only XXXXXXX amount as downpayment,” insult me.  Does owning a flat make you a better neighbor than one who owns a regular home with a garden, gate, and a garage?  Fuck you and your marketing director.


This is a writing exercise that I made this morning because I couldn’t attend review class.  All of the above is true though.  I do not approve of the construction projects around my neighborhood.