Troop Bazaar or The Street That I Live On
Only on Sundays is the street neither drunk on traffic nor binged on smoke. Though its stale breath still reeks of noise and through its slurred speech drip faint echoes of its quaintness. In the tenuous silence numbness of the facades melt and edifices bellow the wrinkles of haphazardness. Houses squat like decrepit old men, that have cataract ridden dead eyes for windows with pigeon poop in their conjunctiva. And if you were searching for the hints of humanity behind those sooty eyes, you would find shadows whose light was the mound of filth piled on the bosom of the street. Unshackled by the din, wails from the trash convey to the sleeping gods above of the desire for freedom of the shadows of men. At times, moon blossoms at the end of the street, but then shies away from the psychedelic runes of the shop fronts. But the street pines away, and in its reveries, dreads the tumult of a Monday morn...