Restless streets groan in the rain. The water batters the garbage lids, and the water clings to gutters like chewing gum spilling from thick lips. Shadows triumph, bathing alley’s between industrialization in darkness. Wet pipes run up and down the sides of buildings like scaffolding; and there is quiet. The rain seeps into the sidewalks, fertilizing all those mechanical human things that never needed the rain to begin with. The world hides beneath awnings and thick umbrellas that belay the nautical—the natural waters of the Earth.
--It’s wet, she said. And it’s daft. And it’s cold. Where is the sun?
--The sun is dead, he said.
--Dead? How can the sun be dead? She said
--It’s dead because it’s all burnt out, he said.
--Burnt out? But how?
--By grief and not being needed, he said.
And the rain dropped down but they found an umbrella, and it was only a short walk to the automobile parked in the rain, and if they hurried, maybe. But then the sun didn’t matter anymore, because the sun didn’t want to matter. Because there was no reason to matter. There was nothing left for the sun and the rain to grow; nothing left for the flowers to blossom into. In industrial shadows, there was no need for anything natural.
--Fucking nobody understands me.
--Fucking cunts all out for themselves, a police man said.
--Bunch of fucking thieving fucks who think they own the world. They don’t own shit, he said. He stood in the rain and beat a black man in an alley for jaywalking. The jaywalker screamed, and then he screamed, and then they both screamed, and then the police man beat him some more. And then they screamed again.
--I own the world, the jaywalker said. I own a tall skyscraper in the city.
--Fuck, you’re a piece of shit. I’ll show you who owns who.
The officer got a towel and wiped the blood off his face. The jaywalker thanked him, and then the cop beat him and stole his money. He only beat folks who thought they owned the world—which was everyone except for him. They all wanted the world and everything to come to them. So he beat them for it. He stole too, but nobody cared as long as he stole honest and stole from the criminals, and those that deserved it—which was everyone but himself.
Good cop. And Bad cop.
Tourists dawdled in the rain with Polaroid cameras, and T-shirts that fit like rubber bands. They walked in circles, staring in awe at things that didn’t matter.
--Oh look honey, look at that tall skyscraper
--Wow. Can you imagine how long it took to build that? Couple of years I bet.
And.
--Look at that whore. There are lots of whores in the city. And look at that pimp. There are lots of those too. And look at the hot-dog stand. Isn’t it beautiful?
And then they would look up to the sky dark and merciless and bitter with wetness dripping from clouds and they said:
--I can’t take a good picture of this street whore in this lighting in the rain
--Oh don’t worry about rain. It doesn’t matter. Look at this nice toy donkey instead.
The rain bleated, but so the residents just hid inward, skulking with shrugged shoulders. They hid, so the culture hid, and they grew inward. They grew culture in air conditioned rooms with blank white walls that seeped into a prison interior. They grew escalators and elevators instead of gardens. They grew tidy floors and tall sky-scrapers. And everyone forgot to grow the world. But it didn’t matter. Growing up into tall buildings instead of growing old with the Earth. Definitions became skewed, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
