The whir of the balcony air-conditioner unit chops through the humid air, Friday night. The city should be awash with weekend revelers.
A plane passing overhead, there’s a gentle breeze caressing the pine trees across the road.
A car passes, the sound of a leaf tripping in the slip stream following, another plane jets north to the airport.
Only this action differentiates this twenty past nine in the evening from a week of seemingly uniform nights.
The day a struggle of lapsing befuddled between various states of consciousness and headache.
The night a dark warm affectionate bear hug, darkness yearned for during the sun’s brutal reign.
No where to go, nobody to see, lost to the social scene,
Friday Night.
The Looking Glass 