The rabid downpours had only just rotted the newly laid cheap tar. Every year the promises of better roads were made, but all that remained witness to these false statements were the street lamps. They lined flyovers as specks of chrome across their arch. And beneath them, by the footpath sat numbed patrons of the streets. A woman, who had just enough in her to guide her man's face deep into her neck. A very normal sigh and bereftness following which the man tries hard to caress her face and kiss her brute. And with their faces so close, their insides grow weary and desolate at sea.
