The Chameleon

Just spent the early morning walking amidst the hordes of business types heading into the workplace amongst the urban decay of antiquated building soon passed by, then left to erode as the new foundations of the new rich are built somewhere safer. Haunted hearts wander around here like sideshow carnival shows with a narrow minded interest of conning the general public into parting with a few dollars from their pockets. No one bothers or ever turns to acknowledge the presence of some middle aged man with a greying mohawk who stands in the middle of the street juggling butcher knives as the people in traffic transmit inner thoughts of just how soon it will be before this performer nuts out and begin hacking up drivers at red lights. Someone nearby starts to size me up and his allies are not far off in the distance, invisible at the presence time yet all too rapidly to emerge when the fishing line gets a tug. This is the situation all those travel guide books have warned me about, luckily it is the daytime and there about a hundred other tourists walking around these downtown Sao Paolo streets in search of some lost language, written out in the form of a riddle. Complex, disorienting, and at times practically unbelievable; this part of town is a one way exit for most, but for the others in urine, blood, and dirt soaked clothing nothing more than a close circle forming a moat of sewage. The only thing more disturbing to the eye is the visible leprosy dissolving the relic skin of homeless types into a canvas of lesion, sores, and scabbed up patches. Barefoot, drunk on the passion of survival, citizens use the power of ignorance to erase these people from existence and when that does not work; the only thing left to do is beat the shit out of them, starve them, and even kill them anonymously in the night. As darkness approaches, the street sweepers get out their guns, then proceed to take out the trash while everyone else sleeps.