80% perspiration

This tender bruised sun, heavy with the bulging anger of rain, settled into the horizon like a sore, as the boy wandered down the evening road. He had lost the slippers somewhere down the road, after the first drizzle, after the first crowd of boys had rushed him, after he had ran and fell into the manhole, after he had washed his bleeding knee, after the kind lady had given him a lift, after she had tried to kill him in her bathroom, after he had climbed through the window and broke his wrist on a flowerpot.  He stumbled near the parked cart filled to the brim with rubbish and rested his hands on the rim, catching his breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to wriggle his wrist to feel how painful it was. It was swollen. He sighed and pushed away from the cart but the owner, a madman dressed in rags, his face hidden behind the buzzing wings of black flies, stood before him, watching him with red angry eyes.  i will drop you off the earth,  the dun sun in the sky is a witnes