Look

Pessimistic view of the world.

The floors are stained and the stains on the floor spell 'glut' in an obscene childish scrawl. And the walls are brick painted white; chipping; red peeling through. The door is broken and plastered with unrepeatable evil things written in fading black ink. Push open the door and the light from the sun reflecting off the moon in an ugly orange hue will blind you. The alley is dusty and newspaper and cardboard stained with piss surround the walls of the backs of the buildings.

Don't

look.

There's a kid with a belt wrapped around his arm, looking dead, other than the lit cigarette hanging limp from his lips. The smoke reaches his eyes; he doesn't seem to care; he doesn't seem to do anything.

Don't

look.

There's a rat and it's dead; and its ribs are free of flesh. Its stomach and guts and blood are pounded into the pavement. But it still has eyes. And a nose. And whiskers.

Don't

look.



Don't

look.