Lurid hot pink
spillage. The barefoot man in his soiled clothes bent to collect what he could
of the stream with a tall white fast-food container. The liquid ran around a
tree trunk that stood in a raised planter on the corner by the train station,
over the mostly firm dirt and through a crack in the brick-work that acted as a
funnel. Judging by the run-off the man might have been able to collect two or
three fingers of the fluid; he had been quick. A single glimpse in passing. You
could not stop nor look back.
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