THE FUTURISTS

The Futurist watched the cigarette fall the 40 feet to the asphalt below, the sparks from the discarded butt showering the cars speeding underneath. The city hovered behind the thick wrapping of smog a few bridges away and the lights were intoxicating but it was time to go. The Futurist's mind was humming, a swarm of ideas, creations consigned to death as their betters choked them out and moved passed the initial inspiration. The monuments of the past connected by sinuous trivialities.