What passes through the mind of a street-wanderer? In the monstrous dream, the great hallucination. A Shakespearian masterpiece. A noble metropolis, a childish Babel.
Evening. The need to follow, the need to find, to come upon unexpectadly. The quick glance skyward, the briefest look downward; the sidewalk curb. The lines of the street, of the crosswalk. They provide balance and a sense of order, however they are unstable. The pavement cracks, small at first then larger and deeper. A hint of green creeps up out of one of the cracks, but the eyes can't stay on the green. The eyes must look up, ahead, since the sound is louder. A bloated crackling sound.
Once more the curb.
A stop for rest, even though the wander must continue. Under it all, a wave-like roar from the subterranean depths of the sleepless city, breathing. A turn, blind light. turn back, a sight. A man's face, then a woman's face, unmoving. They come towards you but are without velocity. They emit sound, more sound than the people walking by.
:for appendix: [The danger of standing too long in one place near a sidewalk curb is that there is the distinct possibility of being bounced around by the throng, the river. It is best to always keep moving]
The light grows and dulls, becomes a hazy blob. Suddenly all is dark, but only for a fraction of time. Time has no real meaning here, as a second is as unmeasurable as is a minute. In the distance an escape, but to what end? No end.
Refocus on the stage. All the players are set, and the feeling is of top billing. This is false, it is only a cameo role. Hundreds, thousands, millions of cameos. A bright flash, and then a bump. That moment of instability is quite horrible. There. a small stone on the pavement... gone. Eyes briefly capture the foot that kicked it without knowing. In the distance a siren echos, The sound bounces off the glass, lingers in the mind, and then returns to the glass. Again, and again. horns everywhere. Incessant mumbling. A stare straight into someone's eyes, cold stare, unemotional, anonymous. Here, it will always be so, the environment is dependent on it to thrive, to evolve. The noise gathers, rises, a clatter, a shout to the right, nearly miss walking into a child. Someone else does it instead. To the left, the left, an opening, a haven.
Silence. There is noise all about, but a pure stillness exists now. This is a stillness that is understandable through experiential translation. Turning from the lights... then, I. You. A reflection.
