The grey-blue graveled tar of the roof was my personal beach; its midday sun-heated stickiness grounded me. Just below, West Hollywood hummed, ignorant to my hovering above. Little breezes lapped at my body, invisible waves of a ghostly ocean.
The noise of idling traffic became the sound of a neo-sea, all man-made but doused in an artificial L.A. nature. All pure design, plastic organic, new holisitic back to basics human projects. Palm trees, non-native, made to sway in the smoggy afterbirth of constructed paradise.
Flat, dirty windows under a flat, blue sky. I couldn’t even pick out the sun though it baked right through me. All the buildings were flimsy sets. Nothing happened behind these tarred and feathered doors, did they?
Nothing was even as magical as smoke and mirrors, just wood and paint. Wires gaffed to be just slightly out of sight. My rusted, cemented beach vibrated under my hot, prickly skin.
If I closed my eyes, maybe it would just become the ocean. Car horns would be boat horns, rambling figures seagulls or sea buoys. Waves of cars rolling by became the endless tide of sun-tipped crests of endless human hope, hollow and persisting.
littlestorms 