The traveller

A traveller could dissolve into the cities serpentine streets, winding intestines emptying into plazas and precincts; they empty and fill with a circadian pulse all their own. I watch as the rain falls obliquely on the grey wasted facades of anonymous buildings. A droplet of moisture condenses on the cold glass of a shop front; the drops coalesce, forming tributaries, which empty into streams that follow the cracks in the paving stones, paths that have been worn by the constant ebb and flow of the cities inhabitants. The souls that have passed here have left this indelible mark on the vacuum; I take a moment to commune with the spectral crowds, I imagine those I will never know, distinct and individual as I, yet on a busy street we slip past each other like grains of sand, for we are no more than inert elements in this dark ether.