The wind

Apocalyptic  screams,  enraptured  visions  yelled  at  the  moving air,  they  pronounce  obscenities  and  biblical  quotes,  whores eternally damned wander the streets, are they crazy, drunkards or just regular people, not even they know it for sure, freaks all around  me,  pink,  purple and rainbow  hair falling  over  pierced faces,  an  old  man  talks  about  the  wind  in  French,  he  barely walks,  his  foe  never  lies  down  to  rest,  a  tattooed guy  has  the dog on the leash, man, your dog is picking some shit from the floor,  on  the  sidewalk  open  hands  mingled  with  restaurant tables, «un peu money, s'il vous plait», blonde women all legs getting out of erotic clubs, the peep shows are on sale, pop-rock music  in  French  is  the  main  theme,  but  they're  playing deathrock at the Dollorama store, the second hand cd-dvd-book establishment overwhelms you, but not so much as the no-name trendy shop where they offer you a glass of vodka that can also be  tap  water,  stuffed  animals  and  used  clothes  only  sold  at weekends, the sun coming down on the city, a sofa just left near your  building,  its  color  goes  nicely  with  the  grass,  the  cold enemy  relentlessly  blows  and  you  know  an  afternoon in Montreal has just gone with the fucking wind.