Even on the crowded, cold, cloudy January streets, the metal screamed and cried, yelled and begged, wanting more. More than holding a light that was useless to a town that closed at 5 PM. Even paint couldn’t hide it’s want. The words: corrosive, burning, ripping through any attempt at censorship. Crying out, pointing to the abandoned building that it needed, oh so much, that it stared at, furtively, day after day, dying a bit inside as it watched pedestrians' feet kiss her stone lips, wishing that something more could touch him than a shoulder brushed awkwardly.
Photo – S
Words – S
