its streets were lined with ghosts of luscious forest all year long, green seemed to seep from the cracks in the cement.
the structures hold firm against the creeping that yearned to reclaim its footing on a land, that so long stood sucking in rain and spitting out forest.
sometimes black spores would win the fight and the structures would crumble and rot. seeking revenge on the lungs of the squatters inside.
only the cement knew the stories by heart. and on this coast line. the snow did not fall so heavy, and the ice did not bend and break the cement so easily. none the less. occasionally it would break open, cracking like dry skin. for thats what it was. the skin of the city splitting, its moisture being so cruelly manipulated by the elements. and it would spill its stories like blood pouring from a cut.
city planning is not proper planning with out a way to capture the stories of the cement. but fact does not allow room for such strange behavior. infrastructure does not bleed! cement do not tell stories! keep the traffic flowing down the main arteries. dont stop too long in the core, you may go blind. the crows throw dirty needles at you. keep driving into downtown. clean downtown. shinny stores. and buildings reflecting the sky and pigeons in a sickeningly calming way. back into the artery, up through the weaving cars, back home. dont look too long at the glow. pot hole, and off comes the tie. city planning.