Times, those ones when you’re happy to be back. Leaving behinds those threats, looking down at you, poor little mortal, running in circles. When rain start pouring on you like fake tears. You’re leaving it, full of glass, steel and concrete, and she’s angry. That she failed. To trap you in for the next decade. And she’s hungry. Always.
All was turning gray, greenish too. Those fading colors, dimmed, muted. Only the sound of the winds through the headphone, the feeling of the drops falling on the face, beneath the hat. People passing by, urban bloodstream, flows. Time has come, trees are calling back. Raw.
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