The machine belched smoke and soot. It looked around like an enraged bull, let out a loud rattle and died. You can see it even now on top of the hill like a dead beetle with smaller vehicles swarming around it. Little did he know that he will be called the roundabout. Some say he brought great shame to the fossil fuel guzzling breed he belonged to. Some of them still blow a gasket of you mention the roundabout.
Looks like the fog just spared my window to the street. The street lights looked liking smokers in an alley. The cobble stones were wet from the drizzle. The street dogs were busy barking at something. A breeze just unsettled the garbage can's lid. My world hasn't changed much. Everyday I look for some sign of change. Nothing seems to change. I have grown bald. My eyesight has dimmed. My kids have grown. The window pane has gathered dust and dirt. The spiders have evolved. Some old buildings have given way to new ones. The neon signs have gone. Still nothing seem to have changed. Change they say has to come from within. But then, what can come out of an empty narrow dead end?
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