Fugue

(This image is by K8 on www.unsplash.com.)

 There I lived...in a city that seemed to be peeled off a postcard that gets sold in art museums. It was in a building made entirely of fungus flowers - large, moist, pouffy. But as wasteful as our abodes were, they were solid. The floors chipped, the walls cracked, the roofs leaked. There were always little rips and tears in the solidness...tiny rips and tears through which strains of the guitars, tunes of the piano, and melodies of the flute would rise up from the gutter people. 

It was a city that looked happy and wasted, coated in the viscous red of hedonistic evenings. If you mixed mayonnaise and ketchup and smeared it all across the sky, that would be 5 p.m. on Thursday. 

And like a Rubiks cube, our little squares of ordinariness lined up, clicking but not fitting. Fitting but still missing. The city moved like that - somewhat of a meaningful but daunting challenge for the intelligent ones. 

Everything moved littlesy and littlesy. we got solidness one day. Solitude another.