It’s two am. A traffic signal blinks desolately yellow at a now-ignored intersection. The most activity comes from a pack of fighting dogs and three cows. The yeasty crawling of Jack London’s Wolf Larsen is all but at an end.
The jagged road makes a swathing cut through the hutments, the pale yellow lamplight a lame attempt to divide, to cut through a living, breathing mass of the city. The distant road marks a bejeweled, outlined crown.
Surreptitious meetings take place in dark alleyways. Shaken hands, whispered words, short walks together. The sound of the odd vehicle passing by is alien, foreign. It intrudes on the beauty of this silent spectacle.
Cigarette smoke and friendship waft before me, my silent companions in a dark, secluded balcony, reminding me of those I’m with. And those I wish were here.
Inspired by the view from Maniak's balcony.
Wrought Iron Gate Repair Wholesale District
6 months ago