Spotlights low to cement reflecting the twilight of dawn across walls and covered windows.
Ambient lighting revealing classical cars and cigars, smoke rising from red tables.
Bare feet stepping into the early floor of an ocean, feeling the salt and seaweed. You look up, and see what looks like an old man smoking tobacco.
You look down, and notice the rush of the water.
Content hitchhikers walking the middle of a road amidst a star-sprinkled afternoon. It is quickly turning to night, and with a suitcase in their right hand, they don’t mind that.
Empty stadiums awash with prodigious beams of light, unknown voices echoing. Large but plain banners waving in the wind, as if reminding you of regiments or battalions.
The trauma of the past making it difficult to think that humans are divinely inspired, or significant, or special.
Even though life is special, you are still unsure of your own role.
You imagine that you are the hitchhiker, even if you’re not content, you still have that suitcase.
You walk the empty traffic lines of the street, and even without a destination, your home is the road.