At a distance

At a distance the buildings around you are monstrous. The dry mold on their skin subdues a pinkness that the morning sun let clear through the air must have made into another living thing on the sidewalk with you. They are beige. Great windowless prisms that absorb light line the street, far back from it, miles, down other roads, or right before your eyes. You could pick them up. Reach out your hand and wave it through the air missing anything solid and slapping greasy raindrops. You dont get near anything. At the end of the road, where it collapses in a point, everything on it, near it, or beyond it, comes to a single function, where the air is a body and body to body everything collects to propose an insurmountable conclusion. You always see it. You will never be a part of it. You are endless. It is a burden. You are the shephard of all other ends.