The snickering cackle of old men drenched in alcohol, choking up tar and coughing at people, asking if any want a fight.
Politely walk away, forget it.
The wide eyed pigeons, almost looking shocked, ragged grey feathers in a bunch on their head.
Let them be, sit away from them.
In the background a street performer warbles out a song in an unknown language, slew aimed at the people walking past.
It gets better as you walk away.
Smoking cigarette butts are a permanent feature, topping bins next to benches with uneven slats and bollards with words scraped into them that no one should have to see.
Try to sit comfortably.
The pigeons are still wide eyed, still orangely staring at nothing in particular, even when you walk away and find somewhere new to sit.
Despite all that, there’s the comfortable burble of words being churned together in the air.
Despite all this, there’s the warm smiles and laughter that occasionally bubble up, and the statues which never seem to make sense, but only because no one reads the grime covered plaques below.
Despite everything, this is where I am, and this is how things are.
And I’m okay with that.