Flow

Outside a little brick house, down by the village, a man with his two children sat on a cold concrete porch. They lay in wait for brother/son, who must have been blazing his way, back home, milk in hand, to feed the crying tyke, in her AIDS suffering mother's arms. Bear that in mind, while I whisk you away, on the Grand British Rail, to the local city, where nine puffy gentleman and a grand old lady sat comfortably round an ivory white table. In walked two cleaners, when the meeting adjourned, one from Poland, the other Ugandan. One sat at the table, listening to his Ipod, the other took a fine trolley to the glass windows. She leant on the glass, with her frail hands, and breathed out a sigh; awed by the beauty of the metropolitan scape in front of her. Follow her gaze to the moving vehicle that was making it's lazy way through the main roads, cleaning and polishing the road to a respectable glean. A boy on his cycle went past them in a blaze only to hit a Mercedes of darkened tint. The Mercedes went through a Lamp post, denting its side. Out came three men of English descent; they lit up the engine and ran for their lives.