Monotony of an ever-soft sky | Narrative thoughts on class segregation

Some time ago I found myself in the suburbs during a particularly cold evening with a lot of time in my hands, sitting in a shoddy pub. I dwelt for a long time in the details of that place where I wrote some narrative thoughts that I decided to extract and write here. 

"

The stairs, cold as the last time his hands caressed them, lay breathless and dying at the edges of that squalid film library embracing its walls and windows. Young rag dolls looked out of them wearing their lipstick like a carnival mask and flirting with the wind that was so strong that night it blew out the cigarettes between their slender fingers. He was an artist, he know about beauty, yet he was a fish out of water without that suffocating plastic around. A romantic dreamer perhaps, yet attracted by that squalor that he so liked to differentiate himself. That evening, however, he did not cross the threshold of the film library, but remained just outside it, observing the walls that rose as if to howl to the purple sky. Rather, he decided to turn around and walk at a leisurely pace stumbling and occasionally dancing in judicious yet complicit looks. Could it have been the Fedora he wore that day? Or perhaps the fine linen coat that he had just now noticed being ripped off his right shoulder?

He walked on the pebbles that framed the village rustically while the pearl moon adorned the sky that was the canvas of his steps. The low-class buildings reserve a desperately welcoming aspect to his eyes, seeing the lights of shacks and merchants along the roadside or simply the shadows of some bakery ovens filled his heart with childish joy. The butcher's shack, which certainly did not try to hide its raw goods, was particularly busy at that time since the wages had been distributed shortly before due to the change in the time of payments in the factories. Hibiscus flowers capture a poetic gaze even in bad weather and decadence, but the opposite was certainly not common in his parts. Ours walked to a corner shop hoping for an edible meal - the entrance sign said "Spouses Sokolov". Inside it was a little less than an oven and a desk on which a wooden box was placed that acted as a cash box. A man in his 40's welcomed him with a smile halfway between sweetness and contempt and handed him a loaf in exchange for a few coins. The faint light of the street lamps and the cold that penetrated the heart whispered like a shiver icy words when ours broke away from the ebony wooden door of the bakery, which gave off the warmth of an embrace that must be rejected. There was no one left among the cobbled streets and glass buildings, no accomplice and no embittered, no thief or child. Everything was silent except the wind. And in that cold that the darkness accentuated, the man headed for his apartment, well detached from that depressing reality.

Climbing the cold but always shiny stairs that crowned the building in which he lived, he crossed the threshold of his room which, however, did not respond with warmth or affectionate kisses, but lay there as if dead. He walked over to his table and pulled out his metal plate ready to be engraved with a new thought. The acid that preceded the ink in that race towards the understanding of that thought spewed on the metal, and tore the inside like the cold that a short time before had gutted the bowels of the man. But not even the work shone with emotions.

He took off his rag coat with a melancholy air, walked towards the balcony lighting a cigarette between his thin fingers and, without a smile, lay down on the stinging wood, blowing out the wind itself with his cold.

"