Life.

Like the peeling paint, the screeching gate, the littered streets, the lying cheats, society is falling, hard with little resistance, a dense rock into a polluted river, thick with shameless uncare. The whirl of water in the chipped white veneer, another empty promise swallowed down with just the essence of forbidding, never anything more. Skies the colour of pavement, dead, cold, perfect for purpose, never even passes the vacant padlocked perspectives of the citizens of this existence. The dreams of adolescents buffered by inexistent laws, can't's, impossibilities. Their raisers, guardians of this battle with such a 'high-tech, privilidged' world gaze wearily as their offspring stumble, digging for guidance but being faced by the grey, clumsy craftsman ship of life today. In a world where self preservation is valued in the same manner one may assess the resale price of hammered rusty car, exhaust hanging, a proudly ugly exponent, just as the dirty grotesque beings hang out of greying monstrous boxes, the only light a twisted one, corner of eye. Twitch of mouth upwards. Yet they pass invisibly, away as soon as they appeared, exhausts imparting such a poisonous seed into the heart, machinery of the young naive girl, face unmarked, hands unweathered by the cruel life she will inevitably see before her eyes as her years unfold. Not the soft dewy petals of a pure rose but by those fair hands smoothing the harsh imperfect gauges out of starkly cheap,white sheet outlined in gaudily heavy bold black type, unpersonalised, simply a generic reprint that resided in the fists of many others alike, with the same dimming light shadowed by the hazy cast on the eyes. Yet all the same a bleached olive branch, held luringly, mockingly by the outstretched tailored limb, white rigid shirt, stark yet proud with quality, tattered sheet no competition. Flash of gold. Cufflinks. Bones restrained by those manicured hands, forcefully pressed into the red plastic chair whilst from overhead the whir of projector, a single image. You. In a life where this is no longer reality. Where you are at last free to openly express how you feel, no editing needed. Free to become whomever you dreamt of, free to visit those far off fairytale countries you could only imagine. Simply free. Tilt of chair, loose of restraint with simultaneous crack of skull on etched eroded boards. Continue your day.
The vultures peering down, heads cocked, gnarled feet choking the withered lifeless branch, eyes boring down into the skulls of the nameless masses. They perpetually stare but do not see. Blind to the life the lowly flies lead, their energetically pointless flurry of goodwill simultaneously swallowed effortlessly by the thick strangling shadows. The pass of imagery across their retinas, yet a loose connection, faulty part. Refusal to sense the error from such a magnificent view, or inability? If it works to the occasional upturn of mouth to the only ones who matter, what does it matter. For there is nothing that will change this state, for this state itself is undetectably dis-engineered existence. Life.