Gliding along the glistening skyline of our fine city, the cranes glow blue and green against the night’s sky. They’re building britches too big for our bridges to handle the traffic that chokes our approach. Plunging down from high atop the First Hill, the red river of brake lights spills into the Seneca Street Delta flooding every avenue and boulevard.
Neon colored lights bleed onto the wet pavement that flies underfoot as we make our way down the narrow corridors and filthy alleyways, careful to avoid the lurching horde that clogs the high street. Weed smoke and cheap perfume, horseshit and rotten food, spilled beer and broken dreams combine as a smorgasbord of smells arranged as if in a bouquet.
The streets are teeming with life. Friday night is alight with merrymakers and tourists, bums, hookers, drunks, corporate types and drunk corporate types; all of us looking for love in our myriad ways. For each of us seekers, there is a vice to be found.
From their lofty penthouses, the lonely nouveau-riche look down longingly at the writhing throng of humble bards that fiddle and flit on the cold ground. The price for mansions in the sky is that you are home less than the homeless. The cost of camping downtown is that you never get off the ground.
Special Photo Credit to Alex Popescu. You should really check out his work.