A number of things broken and left to themselves, the sun returns again to the buckled pavement that flows nonstop, creating its own noxious wind. I watch with red eyes the infernal, shifting lines, as if they mark the end of something, this record of a million lives scrambled, hurried. For a moment between one and the next I am the focus, however abjectly. A subtle quiet pervades the sidewalk with me. The wilted palms shimmer after every surge, holding fast, as strong as me, but they are more patient. Before the mouth of the river a simple bench like a jangseung marking the beginning of the forest. Next to it the black remains of feeding, excreting.
There are two ways beyond the surge. I have little time to weigh the repercussions, as I’m quickly devoured by LA transit, the quiet traveling with me even into this dark scene. Here behind dingy glass, rows of nearly all indigenous and randoms recovering from constant struggle, constraint, boredom, separation, alienation. The tide-pool here is a slow lapping largely unknown, free to be examined. The environment dictates that we remain distinct, yet close to each other. The steady flow obscures any meaningful line. There are many things shared.