Author's Note: This is really just an exercise in meaningful repetition, wordplay, and metaphor. I still like it, but it isn't really a story so much as a reflection and something that I hope gets me writing my multi-chapter stories again.

I hope you enjoy.

If you looked just right down the street of a busy metropolis you could see the changes through time and note the way world was and will be. In a place where the night did little to hide the character of dark things, the immutability of it all could start you contemplating these changes. The changes might happen out of sequence or all at once, but if you looked just right you could see roads paved over cities and cities over graves. You'd behold and despair. The portals and facades of each looming building take on other shapes and meanings, tombstones and epitaphs. Roads paved sepulchral blankets.

You'd note the same storm preparing to envelope a different part of the world and those who hide, rage against it, or watch in fascination. They remain, and you focus on one, who ambles, lost, toward you.

If you looked just right you might have seen the bright sheen in his dull eyes, alight with the flashes of fulguration in the cold night sky. You might follow them along the quickly shifting shapes of the clouds to see what he saw; frigid violet eyes that crackled with terrible power. Or a monstrous shape, a disfigured symbol of right and good degenerated into the stuff of nightmares.

The lights of an illusionary world obscure rather than reveal. If you looked just right all things seemed to pass by veloce, and all outcomes asyndeton, with blurry actions and the agents missing. You would think the agent remained the same, if you looked just right.

If you looked just right you could see the twinges of pain and shock mirrored on his tear or rain-stained face as the lightning lit the sky and earth, torturing both.

You could trace his gaze to his hands and share in the illusion that the city lights playing with the rain cascading off them was an unending torrent of blood. Should the drops cloud your sight you might see the abstractions of children and men fleeing from you or a red-rimmed threat in each passerby.

If he looked just right, the stoop became a stalk and twitch a reflex to some lost instinct, a reaching to grasp a long lost comfort. Instead of grey and black and white, illumined he was all gold, silver, and bronze. One who won everything and not one who had lost it all. Illumined you might see a fallen god among men and vermin, if you looked just right.

And if you looked just right he may disgust you. Lost youth, talent, intelligence, and innocence which you would somehow feel he didn't lose so much as purposefully misplace, after making room for misguided dreams of the type too perfect for such an imperfect place to sleep.

Maybe you'd feel pity instead, if you looked just right, for if you looked just right, say like a petite young woman in a bright sundress, he'd beg for atonement and penance instead of alms.

And you'd peer into that darkness, deep and wide and vast and you'd wonder, fear, doubt. Streak from thought to thought and feeling to feeling as bees seek stamen in spring. And you'd see that it sowed death in the flowers instead of life, but it was beautiful anyway.

If you looked just right you'd see the guarded lost soul of a fiery little boy and not the stationary icy cold corpse of an empty man laid bare.

If you looked just right you would not know what you saw, but for the fleets of contradictions that didn't sum to zero in the dark winding streets of a perfect place to sleep and dream a perfect dream.