A Baltimore Stroll

I wrote this several years ago as a flow of consciousness.

My stroll down the block lit dimly by the street lamps to a cold drizzle, determining whether the great center of civilization which seems so lonely was worth appreciating for peacefulness or questioning the frightening silence. The evening suddenly disturbed by the interruptions of cricket's midnight jazz session, from the domineering breathes of that like an organ- which only breathes the fire of blind terror. The stroll, a tornado sweeps into the churning of pistons sent from mother, panting, running, looking back, but must i, who's that, what’s there, i mustn't, sweating, is it the rain or me? Justice was it, clueless it was, life, torture and the pursuit- the pursuit of horror seemed to be the only guarantee to this world. I hear the echoes of the clashing of bone against the surrounding windows, peering out was only the darkness of curtain pioneers, they beat to the rhythm of a native war chant, who could this be, the vicious snake who bites at my ankles, or death himself breathing at my neck?