A desolate cycle of aeroplane chimes above in the sky, amidst clouds cooling on the calm of the hazy moonlight, and skateboarders settle at the edge of the pier, rolling joints, while the night is gored by the glimmer of red neon dive bars. And I watch a car flirting with the traffic lights, blinking in and out on the metallic pole, winking one by one in romantic rhythms.
The city is all but a silhouette, and the sea erases it hips, and brings out the neck with a killing anticipation of advocating life against the art. The air slips in the gaps between the wet wooden floors, cracked with time that went begetting change, and besetting visions, it hides someplace for me to breathe in while I’m still in lonesome stasis, and while I am still in the cover of glowing lampshade, reading a novel that series the name of despondency, fetishizing the senses with honey-colored memories that echo in a sequence of sadness unique to pensively wrought minds.
I see that the room wants to keep me, and the breeze wants to breathe me. I can almost feel the free hold, as my soul rambles thru the fashionable show rooms, and storefronts, coasting down in inescapable kiosks selling fruits, and juices, guns and roses. Or as I sit away at a desk writing what I read, the dim dark falling over my head. All the while, whistling, thinking about what I saw from the balcony, and then swiveling in the chair, still thinking. Thinking.