John is passing insignificant beneath the monstrous weight and scale of the overpass.
His arms beyond the short sleeves feel the cool breeze of the sorbet pink dusk.
(more) The city and history and the rest of mortality are stretching before and behind him and laying down beside his path.
Tiny in the landscape, John is walking the soil of his testament. Treading dust in a land of fantasy.
Prophet of his own greatness.
His philosophy would be born immaculate and work miracles on the lonely and lost and forgotten.
Ambling over daydreams, on cracking streets he is walking half awake upon, fragments are tessellating into the "Be OK" the B-O-K.
John is seeking out the secret hiding places of the broken pieces. Looking out for the truth that lay there with the broken bottles and discarded scratch tickets and muddied pennies. He has faith. It will Be OK.
Prophet of a new meta-story. Bringer of a new arc.
John is the hunter and he is tracking down the clues he knows are tucked between every prime numbered frame.
John is past the bus stop and electric vehicle sales warehouse. He is turning to his right and taking off down a broad alley where he is new and fresh between rusty smoke stained walls.
"There's the Be OK" John is saying to himself every single time when he is looking on factory walls.
He is rolling out of bed now and he's looking back at the dream he's had had since he first passed insignificant beneath the weight of the distant overpass.
An angel is bringing him a message and walking beside him. John is walking beside his angel and together they are pointing at the edges of the puzzle which one day will assemble into the testament of be OK.
"His dedication was a testament to his work eithic....."
The director rambled on at the top of the room. He had been going solid now for a good fifteen minutes, all Richard wanted was a quiet retirement, to slip away one Friday evening and just not turn up the(more) following, or any subsequent Monday. But no. That is not how they did it in The Company. The voice of the director had faded into a dull hum. Richard just wanted to be in his local pub sipping a pint. If what the director was saying about him couldn't hold his own interest, then how did he expect the rest of the department to remain alert or even awake? Richard cringed at the thought. He didn't even know how the director had gleaned so much information about him, but realistically, so little about it was truly about him. As with many retirement speeches he had sat through in his day, they were mainly about The Company, a ploy to get everyone together in once place in order to spout propaganda at them. Propaganda over, then it was on to the cheap bubbly for a toast and on to the business of getting drunk on free Company supplied wine. Richard didn't even like wine, especially not the plonk The Company bought in for events like this. He had been there for near on fifty five years now, and his mode of operating was to work hard, but not too hard and to remain under the radar at all times. Now, sitting on the stage beside the director, in his stiff suit, he felt decidedly uncomfortable. The crowd rose and erupted into relieved clapping as the director stood down from the podium, crossed the stage and stood to shake Richard's hand.(less)