‘GAME OVER!’ the sign is in the middle of the square, the largest one, blowing back and forth like a rebounding elastic band. As your eyes travel all over the dramatic phrase that was hastily painted onto the white material, you notice the sticks. One on each end of the sign, worn out and battered both held by tender, soft, young skin. The short limbs extending as high as they can possibly reach, their sweaty fingers firmly wrapping the sign that dwarfs them, resembling the littlest hope the sky has ever seen. Fearful, childish eyes are gaping at the swarm of people that gradually keep shuffling towards them, slowly swallowing their anxious expressions and plumb like faces. As a woman passes by, her chipped painted nails squeeze one of the children’s full, red cheeks. The damp, balmy, summer wind is blowing their patched, gypsy style clothing, the girl’s free hand struggles to keep her faded, blue skirt down.

The innocent boy and girl don’t understand the puzzled expressions being increasingly passed their way. Their utterly oblivious minds of the effortless effect they have on the highly complex situation makes their simple faces seem too light hearted to be compatible with it. Noise is an understatement of the sound in the air- even the thoughts in every person’s head can be heard. Chants of the breathless revolutionaries roar over the crowd penetrating the air and hanging in the sky. People are an uneven set of piano keys each individual making a different sound but to one’s ear it’s an enchanting symphony. At that moment the sky is the limit.
Under the firework lit night sky, people are a thick colouful liquid oozing through every corner, carpeting every inch of the ground. The only thing stopping them from seeping into every turn of every road of Cairo is the hammered architecture, still gracefully standing after decades of pollution had found home on its crumbling walls. An overall darkness sets over the square that has never witnessed anything more revolutionary. The light posts extend so clearly from the excited mob, looking drastically thin as if they may snap any second.
Everything is perfectly matching the unevenly united noises, the flashes of lighting, people’s facial expressions except for the boy and the girl. They are the ones who make the difference. They are the ones who make it a revolution. In every way. The dark sky is proudly looking down; like even oblivion recognizes the greatness of the crowd.

Vast blue, a wide sheet of it in the perfect morning, not a single white strand of condensation visible. Winds wet with dew are lightly prancing around like they own the place; smashing into everything in sight. Their hushed movements prove to be too gentle for how they feel. The escalating architecture is still hollow surrounded by its guardian building-cranes. Every sound produced by the buzzing life beyond the world of the square echoes, booming through the incomplete apartments at unexpected times. The profound difference in the noise audible-in comparison to when the square was loaded-is superabundant to the point that you crinkle your nose at it! When you do that, you can virtually hear the layers of skin grazing against each other to perform the facial remark.

The longer you stare the more you see; there is almost too much detail to absorb-almost. Detail is present in the exact amount needed to please your orbs. All the curves of every pattern, plastered onto apartment walls framing their windows, jumble together to form concise borders. Rising hotel buildings contain infinite rows of reflective screens. Everything is square, edgy and cut clean, but every corner is chipped, cracked and craggy; evidence of every thump, clang, bump, bang and clatter that painfully formed against the wearing walls.
The roundness of the circular patch of green centered in the square; unquestionably demands every first glance. The bareness of the soothing arena is calming and comforting. Palm trees are the only sign of life, swaying in synchronization with the brisk winds. Under their wide spread snappy spikes is the protective cool shade. There are two miniature palm trees right in the center of the patch. They stand like guardian angels with their wings extended sheltering the small figures cuddling together in the almost algid shade. Under them the sturdy grass is cut using extreme precision; not one blade taller than its fellow companions. It is too perfect for the beauty of imperfection in the place. If you look to the side you will find the white crumpled piece of objection, ‘GAME OVER’ still dramatically screaming, defying everything in the world.