Tripping over abandoned railroad tracks, stumbling amongst the obscure docks and semis and delivery vans. Criss-crossing the hulking metal ghosts, spent for the night. The tide rolls gently in and out. Irregular waves echo, pulled not by gravity but propelled by benzine, lightly rumbling along I-84 led by incandescent winking.
The rain tears imperceptibly, streaming gracefully through the cylindrical, amber halos created by bare bulbs. My gaze drawn up to witness this natural eloquence, my eye bats and flickers with the liquid bolt between my lashes. The drops keep falling, cooling, refreshing.
Silence. Relative to the club and deafening boom. The only moment of peace. Solitude. After so many bodies and voices.
A place where I can let go of gravity. Let my body melt into the asphalt. A placid spot in a concrete jungle. The bustle only stops for an instant, even in the
madrugada.
Looming warehouses, bleating sirens. Awake. Serenity can't survive here.
