Jungle

There are too many stories in every corner of this city.

You go left, you see a robbery. You go right, you see a killing.

Keep walking for two blocks, you’ll see bankers write numbers on their accounts, by stealing interest from the widow of that poor guy that got shot over ten grams in the other street.

Bleeding in the wet alley. Wondering how he lost, then dying.

Then you sit and you listen and you hear her being alive. You hear her singing.

The city that is.

You hear the trains race on the tracks and the cars rumble on the roads. You smell the sounds of a lot of people. Arguing and selling. And smoke and dust and skyscrapers and hotels for the rich above the clouds and small stinky rooms in the gutter for the poor.

There are restaurants and there is food and pets behind every door - there is the animal in everyone.

And you listen and you hear and you sit and you breathe and you see:

The city is the jungle. The jungle.

And just the nastiest survive.