A bum with downcast eyes roams the immediate distance. The unintelligible mumbles of his brandy-hardened voice wisps its way over forsaken sleepers. Perfect rows and columns they make. Symmetrical, logically placed, carefully constructed to deaden death. As he draws close, his ranting voice suddenly takes on a feverish pitch. A screeching oration is audible to the disturbed listeners:
“The dust has claimed me as its own,
On tyrant winds will I be blown.
With life undone and wit unshone,
I cast away this life alone.
Unwept unseen is what I’ll be!
A roving speck, a worthless flea.
Now life is done and I am free.
No pretty grave for you to see.”
The bum drops where he stands. And the people tremble in the blackness of their minds.
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