¬ frequencies #2

a moody morning captures the spirit of a frozen city, deprived of movement and life, my hands tremble blueish in the cold.
black oil on the sleepers and black smears on the face of a child, gravel under my soles and one by one the bodies vanish into a blur, so i decide to walk straight until i emerge from the fog.

snow melts in my hands and causes a cold sensation of pain, a rift like a scratch on vynil, repeating a sick pattern, similar to fingers cought in spinning spokes.
a rivulet of blood flows into the snow.
red, white and something grey in between.
walls with an amber patina and steel points pierce through a brick and the crowd appears reconstituted, a humming wave of mortal humans, smiling, taken to habit and spurred by random acts.