A Pastoral Interlude

New Google HQ - via Curbed

I have seen the city streets this past week looking like they were painted with an oil stick. The word HOTEL, streaking, bleeding, into the darkness of the night as I roll down the avenue at 5pm, the dinner hour, but it's so black you'd think it 1am friday night, the world on fire. The toughest routes I ride, the 10, the 3, the 20. The beggars, the smelly, carrying animals in their jackets, jumping fares and struggling up the stairs with various apparatus that help them through this world. The bus pounds into the potholes at 36kms an hour, and out the window the flashing lights from the cruisers parked on the sidewalk fill the coach with blues and reds. There I am, in a spot chosen for the least resistance, and I see the litter on the floor and I think about the journeymen that will spray away the days debris when the run is over, making everything fresh and new again.

All for $2.25.