Sun Through Clouds

The faces of people are so different. Everybody is special, everyone could make a great character in a film. They're just humans with wives, children maybe a dog. Running to get to work or getting home. With a purpose. Maybe their faces and bodies are all covered in veils or they're tall, transsexual and have purple hair.
A woman will ask you (on your way to murder mile) "Do you have a cigarette?" and you'll certainly answer "It's my last one" but it's not! In the city a cigarette costs 25p. She will turn her back on you, roll one of her own as you recall that queer piece of metal up her nose.
And the best way to forget it is always getting yourself in the wrong bus on the way to the City. I'm sure there will be light, for the buildings are made of solid gold and you can get infected with happiness if you accidentally touch them.
An interview with Ginger in Emerald City is just a half hour journey. It's beyond the end of the Mile, pass the grass made bridge where they held Victorian funeral marches. When you arrive there, a police man inspects the bus to make sure no one is carrying a bomb. Probably because they suspect someone is trying to explode it since it's so shiny and tall.
The winds are strong and the Emerald City, that was built on a floating island, drifts away in the river. Words embrace buildings, flowing around them like silk ribbons. They're news. It's a quarter to one, not enough time to eat your blackberry muffin and wash it down with a thick oversweet mango juice.
Ginger is nice. He and his friend take me where they turn fabric in to emeralds. They ask a lot of questions but tell nothing about themselves. "We will call you next week!" And I feel like I'm nineteen and have aged ten years in a month.