This is the Birth of Death
The train hissed to a halt and the masses exit like cattle led to their deaths. A slow death unfit for cattle, these men and women moved through their terminals and their turn styles, counting for the census bureau and giving job meaning to a useless endeavor. The stairs were dirty, a homeless man sat to one side and routinely kicked by the passers by. He didn’t seem to mind.
The sun light stung. Even from behind the clouds, the light hurt his eyes, it always seemed to hurt more, and he knew it was just after the noon hour. As punctual as he often would be teased, Jake Clifton moved past the herd and stopped at the crosswalk just as the red sign ordered him.
A bird cried overhead, he looked up. Black like a raven, Jake mused if Poe would have written about it. It cawed again.