It is raining.
The city is drenched, and so is everyone else.
Drenched in their own sweat and reeking of hypocrisy and a sense of never-ending hatred.
Hate would be a small word, it would be more appropriate to call it utter abhorrence.
An exotic bird sits on the highest branch of the tallest tree in the city and looks around the soggy city clumsily melting in the sweat and stink of its own people. All the houses and the roads the buildings have been painted a slate grey. It’s a law of the city and those who dare not follow it are lavished with the army of cockroaches of the city’s mayor, and we know cockroaches.
These are a special breed, almost extinct now had not the mayor encouraged his trustworthy attendants to breed them with all the love and care that his sweat could buy. These cockroaches are 8 feet long and their tentacles are a crispy shiny black. The mayor dotes on them.
The bird’s eye is a myriad of colours as if stolen from the rainbow and he knows that if the mayor is made to notice him, he would not be treated with much respect. His eye glints as he scans the melancholy, grey and monotonous city below.
With this last glance, he spreads open his turquoise wings and glides away in search for a land more peaceful, a land where the bird can breathe freely and spread his wings without the fear of them being burned, for he is no phoenix who can reincarnate from his own ashes. He is an ordinary yet exotic bird, who dares to do what comes to him naturally; fly.
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