This place is eerily empty, despite the throngs.

I walk these concrete hills, my footsteps echoing hollowly between buildings of grey and beige. I gaze dazedly at my feet and ponder the walls that seperate us from deadened grass and daisies.

I turn the corner, and halt abruptly.

A sea of people kneel before me on the sidewalk, their eyes staring fixedly at a large billboard. A skantily clad model smirks down at them as they worship her. I get closer and can hear murmurings like the drone of a machine emitting from their mouths. I catch phrases amidst this monotonous humming:

"Why can't you help me be more like you... no one looks at me because I'm ugly.."

"Please forgive me, I've tried to lose as much weight as I possibly can, but sometimes it's just so hard."

"I forget my wife when all I can think about is you..."

Teenage boys lick their lips and grin doggedly at her, whilst girls glance fretfully at them, then follow their gaze, hardly noticing as their hands inherently apply more mascara and foundation to their faces.

I have to move on.

Up some stairs, into the next street, and heading uphill now.

Something brushes against my arm and I turn to see a pair of solemn grey eyes question mine.

I nod, and they take my hand.

Together, we walk past people whose eyes have rolled back into their heads. They stumble past us in the opposite direction, hands grasping but gaining no more than stale air.

A middle aged woman staggers along beside us. She glances longingly at our joined hands as her back groans beneath the weight of clothes, bags and shoes before she drops, gasping, onto the ground. Another man pauses beside her, hunched too beneath a yacht, cars, houses and suits. But he has no free hands to help her up.

We keep walking.

A girl in her twenties is stooped in a similar way at the crossroads. Silent tears stream down her cheeks and neck, though nobody seems to notice. My comrade smiles at her. With a grimace, she shrugs her load off and runs to take his hand.

I glance at the roads to our left and right which grow steadily darker as a red mist entwines sightless people in its grasp, caressing their bodies with death.

As we struggle uphill, many come to link their hands with ours, and soon we are one body moving steadily onwards.

Three pairs of desperate eyes swivel in our direction, pausing for a brief moment before their parched mouths bend down again to lap feverishly from a puddle of oil slick.

As we reach the brow of the hill, we stop.

Stretched out before us at the end of a long road is a dazzling strip of water, or is it light?

A gunshot rings in the street and i turn to see rows and rows of people lined up to be killed.

They are mirror images of me.

I see myself at all the lowest points of my life, and my insecurities resurface as I watch

lines of me cower on the side of the road in guilt, or shame, or hurt.

I am shooting myself down, too. Broken forms become lifeless, but isn't that what I deserve?

My feet feel leaden, I can't move.

"It's raining!" Somebody cries.

I hear a person laugh.

The rain washes my tears into the gutter and the images of myself that seemed so concrete are now transparent, as the wind gently blows each one away.

Someone squeezes my hand and the grey eyes question mine.

I nod, and we run together, losing ourselves as light and shadows take form.

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