The pavement is hard and hot under thin soles, cracks lace it like giant spiderwebs. The weeds are rusted, dying for water they no longer look natural.
Whatever you do.
Nothing here looks natural, now that you think of it.
The heat pulls at you, it feels like a pressure trying to slow you down; cheeks flushed red with skin already slick with sweat. Droplets tingle on your neck with each pounding footstep. There is a mingled yellow green haze up ahead that marks the parkland.
The old gates are shut like they always have been but the hinges on one side have nearly gone completely. Brickwork old and crumbly comes away in your hands, reaching for the highest one means a shower of flakes collect on your clothing. They stick to your skin. It’s worth it. Badly weighted, two gates locked together, lopsided freedom, but it moves.