I can just see the top of 101.
It probably doesn’t mean that much. On a clear night like this, for most, it is probably just a few steps away, too the nearest corner or balcony, to admire the view. For others it might be in their peripherals, as a subconscious reminder of where they are.
The soundtrack changes, beating basketballs and cicadas in the grass become the stereo sound akin to any art house film. Tires and feet on the path move in and out of my wall of listen. Arrhythmic segments morphing as the gears, of two bikes side by side, move back and forth.
My shadow creeps along the grass; the blades, slicing and intercepting at any movement. Yet, I stay in tact. As I reach the bridge, I notice the perpendicular gurgling of flowing water and engines clash.
On the far side of the river a million lives stare back at my from windows, they can see 101 as well, but their music is different. The water and engines of the abode are harmonious. Controllable. The washing machine combines the water and mechanics like only a machine could. To them, the rigidity is calming. To me, intimidating. It’s a mere compensation.
Is this life an art house film?
Maybe it’s not important.