Music & Machines

    Passing the Eternal Flame for the third time, the constant streams of raven black hair begin to push long forgotten images from youth to the surface. Slick mobs in vinyl costumes battling for the right to escape from post concert asphyxiation. Dark gothic rock hymnals remain reverberating in the space between his eardrums and conscious understanding to this day. Those were sad times. Filled with self imposition and soul understanding.
    He had been been told the reason for the lack decorative dye color is a simple matter of importation cost. It suits these people. Not the eighty percent unemployment rate or unrecoverable political corruption and reliance on foriegn aid. And its not that the population is without character or coherent outward projections. It is that the entire city has been shaded by collective experiences so horrible, the daily fragments of memory powerful enough to burts the barriers of time have painted only the darkest of hues onto their minds. Resentment and mistrust are continuing to saturate sadness into the core of the city, refelected outward in desperate smiles. Tired Eyes.
    Turning a new corner, he is confronted with an modest staute towering over a patch of grass. An iron wrought depiction of Atlas' struggle to hold our world from falling down onto a group of rose bushes growing wildly underneath. He has been exploring the city's hillside neighborhood's on foot for hours and could use a short rest. Elana's waring quickly flashins back into memory. Earlier that year, a young woman wandered off of the paved road and onto one of the many residual land mines left as a legacy of the war. Walking on past the untrodden grass, a small part of the city's sadness sinks deep into his understanding.