by Ellen Gwin
Crouching in the corner of a neglected attic, I listen the sounds of honking cars, of clicking heels, of whispered pardons and marvel at the simplicity of daily encounters.
The erratic scents rise to the top floor window like dough in the oven and fuming cigarettes mingling with the rancid smell of piss allusive to escape from innocence.
As I run my fingers over the grooves of splintered floors I find spots left untouched, covered in dust, beckoning my inquiry. Averting my gaze, I return to the haze.
Men sing loudly, and often terribly, with circus-like accordions imploring each passerby to hesitate within their promenade long enough to reach into their pocket and flip an ill-fated coin.