Mundane. Same buildings, same lights. Less sky as usual. Perhaps squint and there is that tiny pinhole in black velvet, but the heavens are not some sublime splendor.
Just dull amber that barely lights the asphalt. Enough to cloud everything beyond a tall building though.
It rains a bit. Slight shift in the breeze. It’s only hot air pushing through narrow streets, past parked cc. A measure of steady silence forms. Seems in sync with the clockhands, for it’s almost time to sleep.
The pop of a horn, and this little bubble is popped. Someone is always needing to make noise in this voiceless abyss. It’s not that no one is heard, just everyone says the same thing.
Ash a smoke, and count the few I have left. Something I’ve done many times, and hope never to do soon. If it’s this dream I can fulfill, perhaps a little more money in my pocket and less bullets in my mouth and lungs.
It’s all that can be chased in these ill lit streets. Tiny victories. My smile fades as the odor of fresh pizza mixes with old garbage and diesel exhaust. The wind slows to a bare crawl. I don’t mind the smell. It’s just a part of where I’m at.
This place. Like a faultline. Waiting to shake itself into the dust, but it never really does. It never does lay in ruin.
Just its people. Just gypsies like me.