♫ journal 11/04/2025

Night Time

So and so walked in the night. Fluorescent white street lights, blue shadows, a slightly blurry gray sidewalk. They followed the gutter along and waited to see what would come next. On their way to a party? The bar? The train? On their way home? In a rut and carving it even deeper. Like retracing a line time and time again on the ground with inky footprints. A dedicated hard-worker putting in their hours. And drawing lines to the end of the earth. Shedding hairs. Rearranging the garbage– teleporting a lottery ticket from one side of the world to the other after years and years of walking. Teleporting it in time. The pocket was a privileged site. The air was cold. The street was lined with houses and empty, but it felt full because it was right for it to be empty. And privileged to be out. Passers by were slightly blurred in the darkness. Most would keep to themselves because it was nighttime. But the nighttime also tinted the interactions that did happen, liminally, coldly. A fight meant less, smoke was cold, drinks more subduing, more effective, being outside bordered on being cool, depending on what you were wearing. It was easier to feel like the shit.