- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 93
The blackened night sank into Salvatore's senses. Writhed beneath flesh, crawling in a tredecillion of vessicles. Bustling, bursting from the seams, awash with light and the oily thick of haze; translucent smoke, neon pouring in gaudy streams. Quavering where crowds disrupted its passage. Refracted, bent, slipping off Salvatore and into the mess of skyliners and passing yachts in frenetic movements peppered in blue holographic spray. Movements that stole stillness from the world, shattered glass hearts and ticked time forward without a care. Ceaseless. Guided by naught but a lick of hope. Desire for continuance, to continue onward, pressed into the mass of bodies and sweat and perfume that slicked back the odor and bathed the unperturbed.
Despite it all, the crowd felt stagnant. Pebbles lodged in a stream, snatches of conversation trickling by in a fiat of progress. Stale, breeding distrust as insects, buzzing about on drunken wings. Fluttering from word to word, catching speech and faltering against pollen that swelled in tonsils, on tongues too loose. Too sure. They spoke, they catered, so sonorous, so mesmerizing. Conversations held rapt, attentive. Nursed at bosoms blotched with silver crests. Galactic embroidery. Wings for the veterans, crimson streaks for their citizenry. Bow, their presence dictated, but moved solely tangent to the flow.
From its core, where dichotomy wrought chaos in vagrant wakes, Salvatore's perch gave him an idle view. Free from lucid smiles, from lazy currency that obfuscated the eye. Struck blind by avarice, stripped of vision as only the most strenuous refusal towards moderation could manage. He procured a taste for sight. Affixed his gaze on these crowds. Conversations. Stale, dribbling off lips as wont of repetition. Enraptured. His attention was latched to the movement. Swayed to their beat, to the steady rhythm on tin drums. Hung in their orbits, distinct, aloft.
The tatters of civilization that remembered tragedy but wished to forget. No sweeter ambrosia. It was intoxicating. Lifted his lips in curls that echoed hollowly around corners. Walked the length of bazaars and plastasteel storefronts. Tents of fabric sewn together, opened as exotic fare. Salvatore, he followed the crowd on their journey to the metropolis's core. The epicenter of stagnation, under the belly of politics and sirens. Where glowsticks and credit chits reigned sovereign. Where light manifested, existed only for the privileged.
Tonight, inhaling the same air, the same haze that wracked a planet's worth of proclivities, Salvatore erected himself on a higher plane. Dressed himself in cloth buttoned to the hollow of his throat. Rolled at the wrists to expose a slender filament of silver. Pressed wax into hair to run it sleek, slick back from forehead, absconding itself from view, from brow. Decadence drew heavy on his breath, and the chaos surrounding him was his own. It suited him, and he matched it. Devolving to its bowels, clutching thumb between forefinger behind the grip of his back.
Spiring towers and chrome plated sky beckoned him. From bazaar to square, a rolling plain of laborers and aficionados. Charlatans making mimicry of playwrights, of artists. Paintings passed hands. Smoke curled from sticks, from pipes, cigarettes both synthetic and natural. Scents wafted on the air, the neurotic, mellow cant of tourists brimming with excited worry. He walked among them. Distinct, aloft.
Despite it all, the crowd felt stagnant. Pebbles lodged in a stream, snatches of conversation trickling by in a fiat of progress. Stale, breeding distrust as insects, buzzing about on drunken wings. Fluttering from word to word, catching speech and faltering against pollen that swelled in tonsils, on tongues too loose. Too sure. They spoke, they catered, so sonorous, so mesmerizing. Conversations held rapt, attentive. Nursed at bosoms blotched with silver crests. Galactic embroidery. Wings for the veterans, crimson streaks for their citizenry. Bow, their presence dictated, but moved solely tangent to the flow.
From its core, where dichotomy wrought chaos in vagrant wakes, Salvatore's perch gave him an idle view. Free from lucid smiles, from lazy currency that obfuscated the eye. Struck blind by avarice, stripped of vision as only the most strenuous refusal towards moderation could manage. He procured a taste for sight. Affixed his gaze on these crowds. Conversations. Stale, dribbling off lips as wont of repetition. Enraptured. His attention was latched to the movement. Swayed to their beat, to the steady rhythm on tin drums. Hung in their orbits, distinct, aloft.
The tatters of civilization that remembered tragedy but wished to forget. No sweeter ambrosia. It was intoxicating. Lifted his lips in curls that echoed hollowly around corners. Walked the length of bazaars and plastasteel storefronts. Tents of fabric sewn together, opened as exotic fare. Salvatore, he followed the crowd on their journey to the metropolis's core. The epicenter of stagnation, under the belly of politics and sirens. Where glowsticks and credit chits reigned sovereign. Where light manifested, existed only for the privileged.
Tonight, inhaling the same air, the same haze that wracked a planet's worth of proclivities, Salvatore erected himself on a higher plane. Dressed himself in cloth buttoned to the hollow of his throat. Rolled at the wrists to expose a slender filament of silver. Pressed wax into hair to run it sleek, slick back from forehead, absconding itself from view, from brow. Decadence drew heavy on his breath, and the chaos surrounding him was his own. It suited him, and he matched it. Devolving to its bowels, clutching thumb between forefinger behind the grip of his back.
Spiring towers and chrome plated sky beckoned him. From bazaar to square, a rolling plain of laborers and aficionados. Charlatans making mimicry of playwrights, of artists. Paintings passed hands. Smoke curled from sticks, from pipes, cigarettes both synthetic and natural. Scents wafted on the air, the neurotic, mellow cant of tourists brimming with excited worry. He walked among them. Distinct, aloft.