I would often sit looking out over the bay and bridge. I would wonder how I ended up here, in a place I had always loathed. I still don’t love the city.
It’s never any different, always cold and damp. That’s why I sit here. I can see the hills across the bay. They are open and free. They lack people.b
The only thing that stops me is the long stretch water, too cold to pass.
I stay as long as possible, though I know I don’t have much time before I must retreat through the houses that no honest person could ever hope to afford. Reality sickens me.
The people, their politics, the lack of morals. The crooked neighborhood, full of crooked houses, and crooked people. I reach for my book for a brief escape.
Paris in the 20’s, in a year it’ll be the 20’s again, though I don’t think it’ll be the same. I can feel tiny droplets start to fall.
I return to the beach again to find it closed. Old people, sitting at their old jobs. Arguing the same old things.
Gripping the last bit of control on their way out, only to be replaced with youthful delusion. As I walk along the fenced off beach I find a hole in the wall.