Sea of Glass

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The traction of the air. Three pygmy people swept past Kattar, kicking the stack of cardboard boxes, shredding them into paper dust down the street, away from the flames, so they wouldn’t catch and light everybody up. Tachypneic toy dogs crawled along the gutter, snapping at his heels only to curl away in wait for the next legs. The buildings edificed the sky, a sky in ice-pole raspberry blue somewhere up there. Great sticks of gleaming blocks, outstretched in avenue, made to be bold and dwarf, the kings of the survey, your measly head an abstract under the bitter flashlight.

White Van Man screamed inside. The fire violence was a shitshow. People stopped or hurried faster, there was no in-between. Kattar wanted to go to the man in the van, just to stop his noise, it was drawing out. Barking of the dogs behind meshed with the sunlight and inflating flames. Golden rays rained on the road, indirect always, entrenched in the guidance of the glass, caramel over shoppers, their bodies deathly glowing as they rush through the district to shops elsewhere.

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