We lie on the edges of our balconies, with our T shirts covered in dirt and plaster of paris as a cigarette passes around in the circle and one strums the strings on the guitar. Our vocal chords gain their heat from the burning after effect of the cheap vodka and as the smoke rises up to the stars, we chant our idols in music. The flame driven eyes of our past rise from below and look at what we have become. Single, feeble, independent and yet without a soul to sell.
The sounds of the midnight birds cast their spells in their almost perfect periodic timings of chants. On the floor lies a bone of chicken mangled and torn, as the predators of yesteryear look at their only piece of nutrition. They have grown tired of chasing cars, hoping that a piece of meat will drop from them. It is not their game anymore, they have resigned and realised. That it is a man's world and an animal's mind they live in.