People say they dislike the arched ceilings and the shadowy payments exchanges between quick hands, yet they’ve all been involved at least once. They complain about the bats, the musty smell, the patter of footsteps on the muddied path. Yet, they flock together, as if, being in collective protects them. They chatter and cry as if to drive us away.
We don't. We won't. We hate the people, yet we need them for survival. These lamps are our only source of power now. We live in the shadows, we feed on the shadows, we are the shadows.
We don’t like interfering, but sometimes, we must. The innocence which leaves the people is too much for us to bear. It burns.
Today is one if those days. I can see him, walking swift and tall, like an important person. Maybe he is, but here, he is one of the lowliest creatures. He turns into a dingy space between two shops; I follow him, a good height above. Soon, we are alone. I show myself to him, his crimes, his future. He understands.
“Exactly,” I whisper and with one touch, he tumbles onto the floor.
I return to the comfort of the lamps. Tomorrow, the newspapers will speak of a politician who died of a myocardial infarction.
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