Question

Could someone please critique this for me, and possibly suggest ways I can lengthen it a bit?

Answer 1

The man remembered when the concrete became sky, and the sky became concrete. He remembered the night. Some of the stars were switched on above his untidy hair and the others simply surrounded his body, but both served as a reminder of his insignificance. The stars above him belonged to the universe and the stars around him belonged to men and women. But his stars weren't found in a penthouse, a restaurant or an office. They hung from metal poles and they lit up the streets. Every night he followed his stars to freedom.
He was the odd one out. The people around him bustled backwards and forth, their footsteps dyed puddles the colour of purpose. All the while, the man without identity ambled forward, and observed all that he would never be. He could have been that passerby whom idly blew glowing embers into the the wind, but he wasn't. He could have been the father that wiped away his toddler's tears and lifted him into the embrace of skyscrapers, but he wasn't. He could have been the guy in the lavish suit whom drummed his fingers while thinking over his newest investment, but again, the man wasn't. Even though all he had was his stars, the cracked footpath and the night, he was content.
As the city hummed with life, society neither pitied or scowled at him, he was simply a shadow upon the asphalt. It was among electronic artwork and artificial mountains that the man felt ease, this was the closest to a home he would ever get. Stars were plentiful and twinkled in all directions. Their presence made everything more magical, even the most ordinary rubbish bag appeared as if covered by inked diamonds. Rusty manholes became doors that led to secret lands and contemporary sculptures were no longer litter. Everywhere the man looked, there was a story to be told and a message to be understood.
His sandpaper hands trailed against a fence, and he peered beyond it. The bones of newborn buildings laid vunerable agaisnt the blackness of night but the man knew that they soon would grow into deities that ruled the horizon. As the night tired, stars flickered and then extinguished. Voices slurred and were lost between lonely streets, the movement of yellow on the roads became fleeting. Yet the aroma from midnight dinners and the thought of the sunrise fueled him onwards. It was as if the sky felt his heavy heart towards morning, as it began to weep. The tears started feebly at first, like icing sugar, they dusted the air and fell onto the shoulders of mechanical trees, they whispered sweet nothings. Then they fell as liquid weights, merciless, they hammered on doors and windows. The man cowered behind the legs of the deities, stray tears cool on his skin. As quickly as it had begun, the sky stopped crying.
Cold chewed at his coat, just like moths had previously done, and the man felt neither. He was almost at the end of his journey. His surroundings bore the aftermath of the sky's misery, roads of slippery obsidian and footpaths which housed creeks. Most of the buildings had lost their stars by now, broken lighthouses, they shared the purpose of the man, nothing. The night sky was bleached to grey, dawn tugged at its hand and birds pecked its head while tweeting a nostalgic tune. The man said goodbye to the night with an upwards salute. As he tilted his head back down to earth he saw intense light that did not belong to the sun, and he heard a screech that did not belong to birds. The sidewalk met his feet for the very last time and it was then that he remembered when the concrete became sky and the sky became concrete. It was then that he remembered the night. Yet it was also then that he forgot everything.

Answer 2

Hi there I love your descritive writing, you had me hooked from the start. I knew at the start it was about someone dying but not about someone getting run over. Your adjectives and similes are great but as this is about an accident maybe you could use some sharper more jagged ideas.
Continue in this vein though and one day we'll all be reading you. Good luck

Answer 3

To make it a little longer, toward the end focus in more on the specific details of the last few minutes. It begins with a sense of the general experiences of the man's life, which is fine, but you should bring us into the particular, play-by-play, minute-by-minute experience as you approach the end. Is the building he is passing red brick? limestone? steel and glass? are his socks wet? is the sidewalk cracked and buckling or smooth and new? what is he smelling? does he have a cold?
You have a few run-on sentences. Some are probably OK, given the stream-of-consciousness quality of piece, but some are distracting: "The people around him bustled backwards and forth, their footsteps dyed puddles the colour of purpose." Either make it two sentences, or use a semicolon instead of the comma.
The nostalgic tweeting birds don't fit with the rest of the piece. That is, it's fine to have birds, but the word choice there seems too cheery and trite, out of keeping with the gray tone.