our place is bathed in sun. lonely shadows on the side of every thing sprawling on the withered-leaf ground. we always have the rich blue sky, and the wind gushing, blowing over the unchanging horizon. we hear the busy steps of foot-pairs beyond the pane that separates us from them. they walked along those paved streets where men in history walked, while we trudge on the damp ground with our bare feet. their world is on a pair of buds plugged upon their ears on a blaring, repeating refrain, yet, they haven’t heard themselves..or just didn’t want to, while we yell into the blue yonder for us to be heard. dense there the people they pass through, but never was there “hello”, every day, only crowded crowds crowded even as their thoughts are.. they have everything, and everything's rising high; empires of petrified hearts and hardened gravel and glazing, staring upon us. lonely is that side of everything isn't it?—wretched even! then their skies just a smudge of gray. they don’t see the sun except when they have to be out, or the sun was, while we always have the luxury of catching a glimpse of the splendor of its rising.
Photo taken from: deviantart.net