albina

black barking lips clapping on the glass walkers unviciously kneading the sloppy curbs with rubber sheathed feet eyeballs stick to glittery lips and hair dropping like tiny ice from the chunky grey vault the number four detonates a lazy puddle and hisses to a stop umbrellas and plastic sacks tumble from the remorseless smoking brick damp hands fumble in dirty pockets for coins, for comfort bicycles swerve silently with pink ankled passengers hunched over like hovering monks praying for a slice of dry asphalt