Fragmented shards of glass litter the street like dirty, broken stars.
Discarded wrappers of fast foods that only birds find time to pick.
If only there was time for them to care, then maybe when the rain fell, they would remember what life smells like. The noisey, concrete grey of supposed Utopia, strangling each beating heart that even dares to question its purpose. Trains and subways wind around in repeating circles, bringing us back to exactly where we started. The midnight streets strewn with debauchery, coupled with the permiating odour of old urine and the damp smell of derilect buildings. That night I stayed awake until the sun rose above a far distant horizon, so piercingly bright and warm. I watched it rise above the low, lateral cloud blanket until it dissappeared and left only the memory of its brief warmth. It felt like a gift that only I had recieved or appreciated, yet I know better than to lay claim to.