I'm staring at this big pavilion where people roam in and out of.
'It's working, isn't it?' I mutter to myself with a finger on my chin. 'I bloody well hope so.'
Advancing, I look at peoples faces. I wish I didn't. I wish I had headphones and music, too. There's only so much swearing one can take before they would squirm to a cubbyhole for solitude.
I'm not easily swayed by bad language, but when I hear "fuck" and other variations every four words, I want some solace. I wasn't born in the docks or in the stands.
Still, I force myself to carry on.
The doors are wide open, held by rocks. Once in a while, some idiot trips on one. They don't look distressed, but simply careless. I'm surprised they don't want to strike it or yell and blame the bloodless thing.
Regardless, I go through these doors and a stench comes at me full throttle, making me tuck my nose under my black t-shirt.
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