stillfugue

Ticklish, gray cements steam through pedestrians’ hands and crumbles of sunlight bake the depression into mammoth canyons of glass and powdery bricks.

Freddy feels his feet being heavy and maudlin, feels the materials of the walking bridge shaking his tendons, making him glance around for wheelchairs, making him wonder how the architects and the engineers determined that the bridge would be strong enough, and the street is maybe 14’3” below on the West edge, but only twenty feet to the East, it must be over 17 feet, so Freddy thinks of the steep grade of the street as he imagines a day when a giant truck with a man who is chewing smashing amounts of green, leafy, stinky tobacco, gritting his soupy, French-onion-teeth, showing a self-aware insanity just before his 14’11” semi busts the bridge allowing Freddy to feel himself caving through shards of glass and then on through carbon fibers barely protecting the truck’s top and back first into a big bed of lettuce.

But today will only be gray without the excitement and joy of shards of glass and Freddy reaches into his fuzzy pocket and has slight relief at finding his key card, wondering what other kind of animal would do what he is doing today in order to eat or sleep in a place safe from predators that live high on the dog every day in the thickness of the sea of dead brain cells.