All the shadows feel painted on, all the spiders seem restless in their webs. Dogs bark just to hear their voices carry. People walk past, looking to get lost. Some dull stone, kicked as someone stumbled. Some dirty window, translucent only in the cracks. A shopping cart run aground on a curb, a shoe orphaned on a fence. Every person another country, every love a lost continent.
It is the sort of night that slips through your fingers. The sort of night that might as well be made out of words. A light here, a song there, some puzzle meant only for solving, some mystery swaddled in blood and bone. The same streets, crowded and empty. The same sky, stippled with constellations. A cat complains from the roof top. The trees shudder and sway.
My pockets are empty, my head is full of stone. I turn on a light, turn out another. I stare deep into some distance made of words and light. The hours congeal, the walls ache and crumble. I'm a little hungry, a little more thirsty. I feel like I need a drink and a smoke. Every moment some sickness hopes to steer me. Every thought longs to stray from this nation of sparks and gas. No reasons, no alibis. Another night beneath all these suspicious stars.
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