Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

Walking to work through Chinatown this morning felt like death–eras, or people, no matter. All of the shops with closed doors, gated, and the streets hollow; piles of organics devoid of flies; whispers of a country I’ve never been to; St. Mary’s Cathedral–in her quiet struggle for rebirth–evoked sentiment of a past I imagined I owned so I could pretend I owned something worth feeling sentimental over. Mostly, it was the beauty I was supposed to leave behind. Someone, walking in the opposite direction along Stockton Street, looked right at my eyes as we passed. He and I both did a double take and gave a weak smile in recognition; perhaps he sensed death, too.

(What? Can’t I post something other than Craigslist date summaries?)

§43 · December 9, 2005 · Narrative, San Francisco glory · · [Print]

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