The blinking lights of bicycles become angels bobbing between the blocks of 18th street and I can only gasp, as they pour through me, too, leaning against a cold lamp post, struck like Saul on his way to nowhere.
Overhead, light plays on trolley lines, reflected headlights creating crests of light and troughs of darkness rolling into the vast expanses of Folsom St. their motion an expression of the freedom of perfect meaninglessness.
I am walking on air, relieved of being – anything and filled with light arising as easily as these feet, propelling me into mystery.
A subway panhandler strums a banjo, clearly waiting for me, to walk across an expanse of tile, and hand him a five dollar bill in exchange for resting, beside his lonesome notes.
I shake my head, involuntarily shrugging off What has always been like a soaking rain so I can write words that run forward into nothing.