As he stalked the packed walls of the shopping halls, he looks around, isle after of isle of monotonous clothes were being fingered by even more monotonous people. What bad luck had brought him here, where had Esteban fallen of the wagon. Was he not picked up, was there no helping hand or guiding light to lead his sights above the mundane gaze of the masses.
All shapes and sizes, patterns and prints, price tags. Oh the price tags, should anything of value be this cheap? Does he sell a piece of his soul with every garment he picks up? Is every purchase another blissfully ignorant moment. Will he be judged? At what cost does he live in such leisure. Is it right, is it the way of the world? Does he have a choice anymore?
One hundred and six pounds please? That should have been three times as much. He thinks this, as he feels the plastic slide from his wallet. How he wishes it would cut his fingers, as many times as that of the poor workers who have made the garbage he loads into cheaper bags.
He leaves with a confused sense of satisfaction and woe, confronting the hoards of shoppers filing in after him one by one. Each about to strip another piece of dignity from another born less fortunate. His arms weigh heavy; in terms of strength he is more than capable of packing the load. The weight is guilt and the load rests solely on his heart.