i

In motion (only part finished)

  She washes his wounds with a ceremonial tenderness, more like a geisha busy with some elaborate tea ceremony than a nurse. Every night he comes home bearing the wounds of his faith. Never does he ask "is there a place for a man like me in this world anymore?". He knows the answer: there isn't. 

  Still, that doesn't stop the dressed down do-gooder lurking in this coal coloured squalor, inside this dark labyrinth of a city, tending to those that are ill. A metropolitan-humanitarian-handyman of the human soul, every moment of his life is dedicated to alleviating human need. First aider, house builder, peacemaker, he enjoys a bona fide diplomatic status, working even with local gangs to try and neuter some of the bloodier elements of their feudal squabbling. Brokering precarious ceasefires with boundaries demarcated by trash can cordons and subtly shifting graffiti tags. 

  The walls of his city are pages in a book charting its rise and fall, its hopes and dreams. Some find enthusiasm over local matters, community to be cringe of the highest order. To him there is nothing but his city. Nothing but the towering, stoic cranes which swing the future into place. Nothing but the grotesques adorning dormant buildings, waiting in their tortured posture for the bells to toll. Nothing but his people that propel all this wonderful madness along, animating this giant pumping heart. 

  She sleeps soundly in the evenings, mostly.