A man with long hair wears a purple sweatshirt, lavendar in shade. He stands beside a purple door, under a purple sign drinking something warm enough to steam from a delicate fine china mug.
A group of people are running. All of them are wearing black long sleeves and long black pants. Their exercise appears to be punshiment, but no one within eyeshot is making them do anything.
A man in baggy pants covered in paint gives directions to a frazzled suit in a BMW. The driver seems relieved, so thankful.
There are champagne colored camisoles at the sex shop on display beside double-sided dildos. They look well-made and soft beside the garish primary-colored ads for new South of Market condos.
We pass that pizza restaurant where I discovered my favorite bourbon while sitting beside my favorite person just as the sun and fog refract off of skyscraper glass to create a giant sparkle sky mirage.
Everywhere there are pretty girls. All over there are pretty boys. The streets are crawling with furrowed brows.
A young woman is wearing a baggy sweatshirt and ballet slippers, the actual kind, the kind in the barest pink, meant explicitly for dance.
A woman on the bus is reading a big book. Not thick, it is the size and shape of a book you read to a preschool class.
I catch the look between strangers who decide together not to cross just about the time we cruise past the plaza where we used to meet.
There is a box of spilled art supplies. Paints are running into the grates and out into the ocean where they will color nothing.
She spilled coffee on her nice dress. Not the woman in thick heels with a plain face who nonetheless looks like a movie star. She clearly drinks tea.