Steam rises from grates in the sidewalk like smoke signals from Hades.
Cars, a few trucks here and there, rushing by, stopping only in obedience to traffic lights.
Red, yellow, green, colors dominate the bleak morning air. The sun absent on the horizon should have only been minutes away from washing out the gray sky. Not today.
People are few, bundled in black, gray, dark tones suited to this somber morning pace.
Subconsciously many among them perhaps wish they were somewhere less...arctic. Somewhere
with a little less steel and concrete. Away from the many walls. The many boxes they work hard to live in, only to end up buried in one. This day will see little light. Cast from the reflection of sun, far and distant, like a lighthouse at foggy sea. Later, in the forecast, a blessing of snow has been predicted to give more life to the drab. Promising to fall like confetti from heaven. Not much to be cheerful for. Snow will more likely elicit more groans, complains. And eager anticipation for what's called "A nice day." Longing for the need to feel less of a shadow of their own shadow. These dwellers whose footprints are erased faster than they're made. Life has been withered down to brands. Labels, ones they wear, cars they drive, coffee drank. Here all has a designated place on a shelf smack up against a wall. One decorated with murals of history making a mockery of itself.
