It was reaching mid-afternoon, and that was all, but the already-on formation of lights and lamps was luminous - stars on the vast platter of a planetarium - in the scowling dusk. This afternoon stank like saturated leaves, like a colder snap lurked, waiting to spread its deathly frosts. Booming sodium dazzle from sidestreet shops, nondescript factories, tower blocks and always-bustling cafes. And there were memories in it, too, reminders as chunks of former encounters, and those memories were numerous - and varied - for many, who had seen their lives, and the vastness of life, emerge and fade in the flicker of their eyes.
In this maturing day, inside one of the shanty-stores, inside one of the tiring workrooms, computer screens were still beaming (some were now on standby) and shadows lurked but the source of them was not yet apparent. Earlier: the printing presses had been motoring ahead at full steam. Hundreds of hours of work as words, as images, as sketches stamped inside the laminate pages, the identical design over and over, spooling off the machinery and ready to hit the hands of the eager.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher