Zeitgeist.

The undulating bitumen streets hold the young tire tracks of metal horses, like a baby clinging to a new toy. A distant cadence of Bye, Bye, Love is met with elderly eyes rolling and curses about the music of daemons, as it swirls around the dancing, bouncing teens of the local malt shop. Boutiques flutter their eyelashes to lure in the female congregation and poison them with Dior’s new look; a picture of a 50’s town, and yet, if one was to look yonder those hills, one’s eyes could sometimes catch a Boeng-747 sweeping to nest. A gang of hooligans eye us suspiciously; pay them no heed and they will act as a dangerous animal – more scared of you than you are of them. Their hair is swept in perfect slides of oil. But this is not the fifties. Not in truth, anyhow.