Revised almost to destruction ... any comments are welcomed... thanks.
Through spiralling papers a pin-balling beer can ricochets harshly off the cobbles.
The square is deserted now.
Against this wet blustery backdrop, from somewhere behind the railings, a falsetto voice rings out. Its tone is rich but pricks at the sub-consciousness of nearby light-sleepers.
In a dirty archway, on a squalid bed of rubbish, grease-paint glints hazily in the traffic light's glare. A gin-soaked clown wipes spittle from his lips - smearing the ink teardrop on his fat cheek.
He staggers to his feet and the ketchup-smeared wrapper, which hangs from his tunic, is wrenched free by the biting wind. He braces himself against the weary masonry and, through a flow of steaming urine, his voice peals out again.
Although foreign, these beautiful words resonate with more hope than any mortal could conjure. They clip off the blackened brickwork, and arc out over the rooftops, so that dreaming hearts might be carried up into the ether on their wings.
But precious few stir in their beds.
Is there no soul here? No sense of self in this crop? Perhaps they identify with nothing because, most surely, everything aspires to nothing ultimately.
