transmetropolitan

This is the light that comes to pass, this is the blinding sun through the windshield. This is the light loosed at last, the arrival of the fiery horizon. The doves stalled upon the fence, the sparrows busy in the yard. This is the city never known, the crowded crosswalks and the fitful traffic. No heady sense of purpose ringing from the bones, no draw to the yawning direction. No skin of brick and barter, bathed in sound and shadow. Driven, not like a car or a blazing heart, but like a spike pounded down into the ground. It is this, the breadth of sky, the depths of dirt, and the business of being in between.

The mind is full of what it is missing. It is filled by whatever it happens upon, bluestone and sarsen, limestone and gypsum. Wooden joists and steel girders, plaster glass and concrete. The miles of steel and iron and tarmac that wander to and fro. Money is magic, it is the death of the imagination, stacked symbols and errant decimals. Tough talking dandies and their murderous mentors that visit no considerations past their glut and greed. The great envisioned cities of tomorrow now only fronts for continued thievery. Bullets to the breadbasket and the clatter of brass. Blunt force trauma the going rate for doing business.

The day hits hard, the dreams come loose, mythical beast wander wild in the streets. The ferocious assault upon the gods of life and the law of plenty have called down furies of heaven and earth unleashed. The shining of the city on a hill the glow of the inferno up on its hind legs, the graven gods of the watch and wallet slapped down by the blood and bones of the waking world. The parched throat, the burning sky, the answer of the very air abounds. The fields turn to dust, the peoples wander, the avaricious thieves keep stealing with all the hands they have. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow never more. We awaken all at once, too late so long ago.