On the Streets of Kamora

On the streets of Kamora, a man sits at the Fountain of Angels, eying the days offerings which lie at the bottom of the tepid water. The man remembers when he was one of the click clacking masses, on their way to work, in the Main Dome of Kamora, ready to pass ordinances which allowed dogs on leashes in the park, bettering and improving the city, keeping it cobblestones, which were erected in eras past. The man remembers losing his position and being put on the street because the cost of living in Kamora came too high. He sits where he can, sleeps where he can eats what he can. The underbelly of Kamora is paved with grease and dirt. The great unwashed populate the parks at night. No clickety clacks. more ting tinging and swish swash. The man notices all the details of Kamora, what he was too busy to notice in “better” times. The mosaics of the great buildings with the echoes of it’s former prominence. Not the tiles of the great shopping center which resides in a newfangled behemoth of a building. The birds in the belfry and still the click clacking of those who work. The man swoops up a handful of silver and copper coins and notices the faces of Kamora’s founders on the bottom of the fountain. Like an onion, the city unfolds with new revelations, while the man sits and waits, watching the clickety clacks and the ting tinging swish swashes.