“how-can-we-be-broke-when-the-city-owes-us-sleep”
When she walked up, or rather, paths collided, there was an electric noise in the air. Like, static, but subtle. Like that on-purpose type of static.
city mornings are like that. especially sundays. she had more questions than we wanted to answer, the static making it more surreal - there’s no exit from these situations, they grow little tiny anchors and you are in it until you are not in it any more - the city owes people sleep.
“‘oh, me? oh, i am just kind of here’”
her parting words were suggestions on places to photograph, all tourist spots (the roses and fountain at balboa park), as if we were some place at some time, encroaching
