The hard stone feels cold underfoot. The wind bites at my cheeks. The concrete is mottled with dirt and refuse, and looks like the markings of a massive animal. The constant hum of the city is the growl of the beast. We are fleas, and I am the smallest. Insignificant to all the others. They walk this way and that, calling out, adding their voice and noises to the vast range of noises bombarding the ears. The mute blue of the sky is partially blocked by the towering buildings. The beast doesn't move or tremble; its stagnant, idle, like the people treading upon its shoulders. They walk in and out of offices, grab coffees, make money in their various ways. The cold breath of the beast whispers death to my bones. The vehicles on the road pump toxins into the air. A small trickle of contaminated water flows into the road grate. The blood of the beast is filled with toxins and refuse, abandoned coffee and gasoline. Colours passing at many different speeds assault the eyes, advertisements whirl endlessly in the mind. Eyes that stare endlessly back at me. Words that mean nothing to me. Things that I can't have. The cold concrete beast has an alluring palette of colour. An intense odour produced by thousands of foods. A horrifying mixture of hotdog grease, raw fish, Indian spices, peppermint gum, burning cigarettes, idling diesel, fresh rubber, and the human stench.
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To The World, I Say This...
RandomTo The World, I Give This: A range of my smaller works, including scripts, essays, opinions, and short stories. To The World, I Render This: A beautiful and (hopefully) graceful example of spontaneity and genius. I also render (to anyone who has th...
