Posthuman Blues

Puddles of dried, colorless wax greet pedestrians on the bridge: the relics of blood-red candles burned in silent homage or memoriam. The accompanying rose petals have long since succumbed to the thick medicinal waters of the creek below. The air is stagnant, unmoving, oddly selfish. Ragged symphonies of asphalt and sun-baked concrete clash with too-perfect lawns and rows of fastidiously watered flowers. The glow of digital cameras, screens like small blue flames tricked into unlikely geometries. The cool depths of parking garages, where the air is held captive and breathable.