Walking out into colddarkwinternights, stumbling while you're climbing footpaths, being slightly, strangely short of breath - your head starts spinning the way it only can when it's dark and a little lonely. You stare straight ahead trying to maintain this . . this dignity that walking alone at night in the dark seems to rip away from you. I tend to walk briskly but that's not the point - the dignity doesn't drain away because you feel like you have to walk fast. It's just that the space seems infringed upon if you walk in the quite night. The people on the sidewalk? They're superior- they either ignore you or stare through you with disdain. You haven't interrupted anything but you still feel like it's more theirspace than yours. Or nightspace. Or anyspace but yours. Sometimes this cat roams the dark alley which the searchlights can't quite invade, and sometimes the orange glow of the construction workers' lights sets off some memories that aren't even completely formed but when you're short you'll do with a memory, any memory that has clung.
They're fortresses, these buildings, fortresses that only hold familiarity captive. When you walk from one building to another, you might as well be crossing the formerly dangerous jungle that had all its animals killed - there's no ostensible fear but you still feel it, like the magnificence of a fallen monarch. You can't help but feel it.
Remember the glory days, Manny?
Long gone, my friend.
They're fortresses, these buildings, fortresses that only hold familiarity captive. When you walk from one building to another, you might as well be crossing the formerly dangerous jungle that had all its animals killed - there's no ostensible fear but you still feel it, like the magnificence of a fallen monarch. You can't help but feel it.
Remember the glory days, Manny?
Long gone, my friend.
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