Hey :-) I need some advice. Please would you tell me if you would see the following as a heap of grammatical errors, or just a different style of writing. It's supposed to read a little like The Unbearable Lightness of Being :-) But if it's completely illegible I will simply have to begin again.
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Bella is racing through the decrepit and over-housed neighbourhood which is her home, her bike roaring through the bleariness of the morning, slashing through it like a knife. A battered street sign with a bent-over corner and a four bullet holes welcomes you to Cawdor and asks you to please drive carefully.
Graffiti grows over these buildings like ivy, yellow and pink and blue, Jezza nd Jaz in luv 4eva 2k4, fuk da system; opinions and feelings painted in three foot high neon and faded by the pathetic attempts of a police force which has long since given up. Abandoned cars teeter on street corners, rust splattered over them like dried blood, the windows blown out and craters where chairs should be.
The constantly falling rain collects in the potholes which mark the road, and her wheels displace the water, send it flying behind her like confetti. It patters down on the ground, and newly-grown rainbows spread over the surface of it, caused by leaked oils from second-hand cars and dodgy motors.
An old man shuffles his way along the street, his fingers clutched around a pipe which he has never considered giving up. It is as much a part of him as his arms and legs are; he has had his pipe since he was a young man. Memories of a long life swirl within the smoke, turning and disappearing into the air. It puffs out of the corner of his mouth; his lips are pursed around the varnished stem. His hair is sparse and loops his head like that of a monk, and his eyebrows stick out and inch in front of his face, bristly and grey. His eyes are watery and clouded and his heart beats painfully, pump-pump, pump-pump, how much longer, how much longer. Not so long now, the smoke promises as it leaves his system. I'm nearly done.
He hears the bike from behind him and turns a saggy neck, watches it approach. The noise grows louder as the wheels fly over the road, and he watches the water spray up around it as it growls its way forward. He glances at the pothole beside him and curses, struggling to move faster, get out of the way; but she is upon him and the wheel hits the water and it rises up in a huge splash, and arcs, curves through the air. It lands on his clothes, patters against his skin, soaks his side. She flicks her head to look at him and she shoots him an apologetic glance; but she is gone too soon for him to notice. He sticks up his middle finger and curses her through the corner of his mouth. His words are foggy. Stupid kids, he says, stupid kids and their stupid jacked-up bicycles.
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