CHARLOTTE, NC
The rain falls low and jagged. The buildings rise no higher than kites. Too muted to be drawn about, the pour does not last the hour. I walk underneath highways that were once marked with vandalism (naturally, that was up north) but are now fit for strollers and beggars and me. I smile to no one and think that a city like this is too unworn and new to have seasoned vandals, they sulk and jazz and skull in places that would not dare have muted rain…yes, their rain soars and splinters, with gentle force it rattles windchimes and scares the aged eye through windows—as they’ve seen worse before—and is mistaken for the murmur of a cat, it slows (in a way somehow agile) the thick, rubber wheels of a mom-and-pop bought bike, makes our walk scattered and careful like men on a slick-floored boat. And yet somehow, with it washes away the slovenness and decided filth that these cities raise…it is a innate science, a primordial mantra. I sometimes think it is like everyone is engineered knowing…we like our city wet, crooked, full of bastards and anything goes. Anything goes. I say we—do I refer to my city, or theirs? It is possible I belong to one. It is entirely possible I don’t.
I didn’t mean to add two of those photos of me oops. One was intentional tho
love the pics