It receded, again, to hibernate on the opposite side of the sphere. The coolness of darkness veiled beach squatters to protect from the solitude to come.
The mush of dense grease held between buns, insipid, dissolved with chews. The lunch time hunger did not dissuade from consumption. Instead I switched from burger to fry, fry to burger to disguise the patty. I listened to Morrissey playing in the background and admired the whiteness of the room.
They drifted by like paper boats on a pond. Couldn’t stare long without sneezing, the brightness was seductively revealed by those clouds.
Tempted to spin the shiny mass of leather that leaned casually against the wall. The geometric rays weathered it to a state of refinement. I sat on it, I did.
A passive afternoon was enlightened as sunbeams illuminated assemblages of steel. Chevy’s sheen pronounced confirmation of a glorious past.
In the alley echoes are born and conversations bounce off brick, falling, draining to the gutter. Sound extracted from the alley, unveiling an unpredictable luster.
The wall sustains a white Los Angeles, supremely contrasted against black piercings of lively scenes trapped under glass, to be studied for their photogenic semblance.
On that Saturday I no longer remained static, only somewhat. The lighthouse garnished, like a cake topper on a grassy mound. On the climb I was repelled by its whiteness, and I rather not push the boundary. Instead I sat and looked, still, as the enormity of the drifting vessel moved our planes in a parallel …