Inconceivable Attributes of Time

It’s another day of Summer.

Stepping on the pavement's dusty hot asphalt, I almost can feel it's painful memory bout thousands of steps and tires; I almost can hear silent screams of millions of prehistoric creatures, suffocating under a monstrous pressure of an unknown archeological disaster. Long ago.
And now the foolish wind is playing with a chiseled poplar's, still green, leaves and motley skirts, lifting up in the air plastic bags and the street garbage.
A red Focus stops nearby. A silly blond cuckoo has never known of Henry but why should she? She locks the car and goes, leaving a trail of viscous artificial aroma and a glitter of tasteless trinkets. A sudden thought appears: what if the barbie is happy, really happy? She doesn't think of the signs of time and never needs to.

Time. Time never stops its uniform motion. It only leaves some memories to us; and if you ask me: "Why is it so?", I will answer: "Because a near-empty bottle in the hand of that dragging-by bum will never become full again".

It will never become full again. Never.

Another day of another dying summer is going to vanish forever.
The phallus of a lighting post points to the deserted dusty sky, which is still keeping a memory of the recently flown swifts. And I almost can hear their piercing screams, twisted with their numerous precise traces.
Will they ever come again? Ever... again...

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Pavel Nichkov
2011-08-18

A constructive critique is welcome