He stood, an old man draped in weighty years of pain, sagging against a speed limit pole, itself draped in the flowers and messages of a forlorn mother whose son has negated his life through tipsy joyriding. The man knew this not though and the grieving mother knew not the old man. Both were against the clock, hope long gone through the decades. Neither of them knew where to go next, nor from where they had just come. The day was seething hot, and the pavement of progress screamed by as the man sagged, waiting for a moment to wade through the future that had already passed him by. Still he sagged for a perpetual moment against the pole, against the memorial to the young fatalities of the modern age. The mother knew not any of these musings, nor did she care. She only had an empty space in her heart full of cold, blue wretched pain. And the blue pain shone from the flowers on the pole, curiously meeting with the man who felt nothing but the dead embers of youth. And more than anything else these days, only the young knew joy and knew its danger before being sterilized into adulthood. The infrastructure, like everything else, was found wanting.
The whole artifice soon will sag, heaving its last throes of confused ambition to those yet unborn before crumbling beneath the weight of an expectant populace. Those future empty spaces lingered against the grieving mother and sagging old man, afraid to move on to a future blinded by darkness. In that sadness, the sweet aroma of the real drifted past those embalmed in the certain. The average became the median and the outliers turned away in shame.