Guiding a hovering mountain of society's waste, so intricately constructed that one could only assume it to be a puzzle of the utmost difficulty miraculously pieced together with a magic touch of the highest caliber, he walks along the beat cosmopolitan street, indifferently, removed from his surroundings, as if his presence had been superimposed upon the current landscape of salarymen herded from work to feed and back. With an impeccably focused eye, sharing not a care with his surrounding critics, he surveys the ground for a treasure those peering eyes around him may not quite grasp.
He stops, kneels down, and procures a worn, contorted cylinder of hope from a shadow between a hideously fancy sports car and the curb. Extending his kneeling knees, he slowly rises upwards, taking a few slightly hunched steps back to his floating chariot, into which he carefully and precisely secures his booty, and continues on his way throughout the city's endless streets.
1 comment:
hideously fancy! I like how this one builds up to this small moment. It reminds me of the XX. I think the journey to the moment is always better than the moment.
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