Fig leaf fashion, ashtray, alibi

fingers to the bone, squeeze the life out of everything repurposed flour sacks, living hand to mouth. Pockets filled with makeshift trinkets to extract found treasures that providence has put in your path. Clothes are being designed to look like you survived the apocalypse, and dug textiles out of the rubble.  Pieced together an outfit that harkens back to better days. To be worn in the modern world where you  buy over priced fast food, or coffee wearing over priced clothes that look like you are a street waif living on the brink of insanity.  Going into brightly lit spaces redesigned and prettyied up like everything is fabulous and your dingy wardrobe is your Sunday best. Back when Sunday meant you rest and give thanks to your Creator. The priest warns of the evils of greed, and being too vain.  Modesty and charity. Demanding focused fixation,  Cleanliness, socially conscious presentability. Pay your taxes, pay your tithes. *Poof* ... the smoke clears ... your vision regains focus. You start to push out the intruders that lobbied their intentions onto the public, into the public square. Even the multiple choice survey doesn't really offer variety.