It's Sunday night in Brighton.
The businesses put out their trash.
It's 2am. Seagulls draw in and enact what's in their nature.
It's 8am. Trash is strewn over pavements about town.
I leave the house.
The whole town reeks of rotten fish
and the acridness of human nature.
Is it me that smells so bad?
Council workers patrol, taking pictures of offending businesses.
Dustbinmen will arrive shortly.
The cycle will go on indefinitely; uninterrupted.
The morning air will carry the scents of rose perfume and decay.
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