Solidity had been a lie. Snow would ferment and bark would sprinkle the white lawns, but up in the roofs it would skim off into air until they disappear into the night. Something different occurs today. Someone turns on the trough and air seems to have a tactile weight beating on the plaster walls. The lamp's orb light dims and the space loses its corners. I almost float. Running down the steps, I get outside where streetlights uncover odd rays of light like line breaks for the electric horizon. The buzzing of furnaces replaces the procession of stars. A car drives past, leaving only backfires drumming to dark windows of closed netcafes. A bike leans outside with snow packed on its fenders like brows on spoked eyes. My first time riding it wavered as I kept balance. Something that had to be kept or it would leave, falling flat with a tittering of the still moving wheel. Then I get used to it. Legs push on the pedals and then it felt like blood was coursing through them. I'm almost taut, my body with clear definition as the wind retains a mighty orchestra. Then afterward, it felt like nothing. The kind that makes you try to find your reflection in a puddle of oil. Then I felt patchy after each ride as if a light emanating and I would disappear if the day was switched off. These nights are pink now and I wonder if people were dreaming of this. They would invent a fantastic version of reality that would blush or seem plausible enough for them to inhabit. Or now, would they wake up in electronic cities half asleep.
YOU ARE READING
concourse
Short Storyphotographs and snapshots are all that remain in the urban square, haunted in geometric designs now almost without reason, no baroque pedestal that upheld severed marble heads. only forming ledges to compose stairs and boxes containing soil. somehow...
