The Urge.

Half lights, smoke, sweat the musk of a city.
Summer heat reflected from concrete at night. Distant car horns and homemade rabble, bickering and the sound of cutlery and pots.
The reverberation of a thousand feet stomping the asphalt. Soles of shoes taping on damp cement, pieces of clothes and accessories dragging on the street. A jacket thrown on a garbage bin, a piece of chain from somebodies back pack hitting a lamp post. Random objects hitting the floor, plastic metal and cloth. The occasional oomph of a human rushing to meet the ground. Countless panting breaths, the brushing of skin as they try to outrun each other.
Lips half open, dry and cracked, rimmed with sweat. Hair being tossed in a matted mass. Fingers gripping arms to hold for dear balance. Hands pushing against flesh and bones, covered in dust turned to mud with sweat, trickling down shoulder blades, sternums and necks. Muscles rippling underneath. Straining to keep up with the momentum.
Eyes wide and frenzied fixed on nothing at all. The look but a reflection of the things to come. More concrete to stampede on. More people to push through. Obstacles to overcome or simply topple over. Nothing holds meaning to their eyes.
The occasional puddle of water to be stepped upon and splash it's contents numerous times until it's spread over too much concrete, asphalt shoes and feet. Sweaty hand prints left on the formerly reflective surfaces of cars, shop windows, trash cans and traffic lights. Smears of blood on building walls, corners or telephone booths.
Civilizations' end, rationality's demise, nothing left but The Urge.
In a poorly lit roof top she was smiling a yellow smile that reeked of something burning.