He rounded the corner at full speed and tripped, his laces snagging on the serifed stem of a letter T which protruded in to the street, warped by the sun. His palms began to extrude blood, filling the grated skin, the metallic brine began to pool, adding colour to his rice pancake skin. As it filled the gaps in his wounds and ran through his palm lines, he was reminded of cursive writing and he could make out a word forming, but not fully before a street hero shoved a wad of balmed Kleenex in his palms and asked if he felt ok. He felt a well of anger rise up, and he screamed at the Good Samaritan...YOU IMBECILE, I COULD ALMOST READ IT, THE MEANING, HOW DARE YOU REDUCE ME TO BEING AGAIN, YOU IDIOT, NOW I WILL HAVE TO TRY AGAIN.....
Comments