The sun has begun its descent, forcing shadows to stretch from any object fortuitous enough to bask in its glow. There is an inequality in the distribution of this prestigious light, for only the tallest buildings in this city benefit from its glory. As the sun rises and falls, these concrete towers consume its light with voracity, casting stifling shadows that obscure those less fortunate. This is the way things are, and all have accepted it as such; it is a daunting task to dethrone the kings of the sky: they are too numerous, too strong, their shadows reach too far.
Behold, a corpse walks upon the sidewalk, arms hanging limply at his side. Three cans of cat food occupy his bony fingers. He drags his feet with each step; his shoes peel against the grainy texture beneath his feet. There is dejection in his gait; he lacks the capacity for grace. Eventually, his shoes will have deteriorated completely and it will be his skin that peels against the sidewalk. He is just another monster in a world saturated with millions just like him.
What becomes of this cadaverous rambler when he comes upon a crossroad? An intersection shrouded in an oppressive darkness, each direction offering only uncertainty, doubt, distress... does he continue? Does he turn back? Is there anything to be gained from continuing? But then, does he have anything to return to?
How foolish he was to believe that he could offer protection for or nurture anything. It is not his place, nor his role. He will be diced and discarded on a whim. This is his role. He operates within the shadows of the lofty. He is unwelcome, a peasant, a virus: an unwitting contributor to a global sickness, one in a world saturated with millions.