Ilm kui nõrk metafoor

The wind picks up and the clouds shield the Earth from the Sun. His Holiness grumpily crouches down to have a poo. One eye on the slightly ajar gate leading into the garden, the other trying to help estimate the current position of his magnificent purple robe. A sting of shame pokes his self-esteem, a single tear falls as he prays to his god to forgive. He refuses to leave behind his holy piece of clothing, even if he must sink to the level of barbarism that he already has. Faint footsteps approach as they echo on the crumbling concrete. His Holiness flings himself back, further into the bushes than he has already got. The rosebush is not kind to him or his gown.

"No türa, ma tõsiselt kahtlen, et see vajalik on." A disgruntled figure skeptically follows a more careful figure as she soundlessly glides across the earth, seemingly glued to the side of a thick large fence. "Me ei ole näinud absoluutselt mitte kedagi, miks sa seda teed, oh Jeesus, aita mul mõista." She stops, throws him an angry look and continues on. He sighs, half-marching in the middle of the road, in a most expressively bemused manner possible. They pass the gate and peering inside notice the quivering feet of a robed figure, bare heels inches above a fresh pile of excrement.

Every notion of light is lost as the Sun sets behind the horizon. Darkness cloaks everything within itself. Empty and quiet apartment blocks stand bravely against the night, their collectivism frightening small animals. Broken windows jab at the gloom in unison alongside. A small tribe of humans lights fires on a rooftop to humour the expectation of rescue arriving, but to cook as well, pragmatism ruling over others. There aren't many individuals, regardless they fall into dissimilar factions, schools of thought and perspectives of the situation and life in general. Food, water and non-essentials are distributed equally among those who signal need or desire. There is bleak humour and broken people. Paranoia settles next to rationality, mental instability picks at the seams of the weakest minds. Hysteric musings bring forth more primal reactions and eventually, some are lost.

Light barely manages to break trough the curtains, the unsettled dust and smoke. A degree of nobility is to be preserved and liquor is honoured in the simplest ways. His portly figure has made a lasting mark on the leather armchair and he carefully reaches over for a new box of matches. The candle has barely been enough to last through the night, thus the turn of the cycle is welcomed. A mental image of ancient, aged stone rings grinding and turning settles in and it is pondered.

Elevated, the pace quickens. The chase has lasted a solid ten minutes, but now he has managed to get to the second floor, providing flexibility, some time and more obstacles. In a straight line, he pushes through the mindless crowd and doesn't stop before he notices the guns. They are slightly spread out, but their presence is felt and acknowledged. Insubordination is not an issue.

Pale figures gleefully look on as swords and axes fell the accused.

Haunted souls provide fear, doubt, disruption.

Ants.