There are so many people teeming like fish and rain splashing on the hot bitumen sending up a heady, gritty steam, I can’t quite imagine them all with specific dreams on ladders against the scaffolding, hammering away at the vision. I am just a blade in wild grasses the drought has not yet daunted pushing my way to crane and see the spread like carpet a god laid or I am a tree’s leaf not yet shaken free or one tiny salt grain in the sea steadfastly dissoluble for a brief moment in time. People keep on coming, the time lapse shutter open elastically ready to snap back while they file and file and file until the backlog jams and they file still more. I see in the photos you get on Google, image upon image of posers arm in arm, eyes square with the lens or wearing hats askew daring time to annihilate them, send them cracked and sepia backwards to the monochrome of moments past and discontinued. They will keep on coming children from children grown like my own who came out of my bright-eyed leap across the gap between oblivion and intoxication.


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