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I've edited it. I don't like it any more than the original, but it becomes a different proposition now so I'd like comments all the same:
The street was filled with misfits, that night, and there was a terrible
buzzing in my ear, like feedback;
and as I walked, I saw children, with bottle caps in their shoes, dancing to some fatalistic tune
and a madman, shaking a dead flower, screaming.
The street was filled with life that night
and it filled me with life too, somewhat;
the streetlamps flickered incessantly like a man trapped in a box, trying desperately to escape, and everyone was a streetlamp, it seemed.
A man in a pristine suit with a briefcase and a three day beard,
stinking of alcohol, smoke and piss,
crept up behind me as the stench caught in my nostrils like a thick, black fume, and whispered, softly
in my ear-
"This is where people die whilst living."
I watched him disappear, throwing money into the air and cackling.
I kept walking, and I sat down on a bench cold to the touch, and my ass began to numb. It started to rain, and I still sat, sat until I was drenched down to the bone,
pelted by fat water bombs.
All of the people gathered.
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