ONLY THE faint rustles of wheels on asphalt can be heard this morning. None of the usual plastic cracklings nor clamoring chatters among vendors and customers alike.
The streets are clean, save for the residual water from rain. At this time of the day, the place is usually packed; cardboard signages here and there, fruit flies in the air and motorcycles trying to fit through the mob of consumers.
People from different walks of life used to fill this place.
Workers would be unloading new batches of produce as the bustle eventually dies down. Yet, by the end of the day, the signages would still be there. The fruit flies would continue hovering, and by-foot traffic would very much still give life to the rough asphalt.
There is a certain brand of life to which noise, carton boxes and produce are the compass that determines what makes a place feel more like a commune. Or when the ordinary is what makes up a culture.
But the morning is well into noon. The air is crisp, too crisp—and there is only so much life a barren street can give.
The vehicles continue to pass by. The wind picks up its pace and blows into the rain-scented air. The day has just started, yet the motions seem to have no sense of time, and no sense of existence—just coming by and coming through. Faceless, soundless and lifeless.
And so these are the new streets: clean, proper and gray. But above all, empty. F
