Ever since a while ago, I have always had the feeling that I would find you in D.C., where you see the sketchy food/liquor stores and the closely packed townhouses. Maybe it’s the place in general. I’ve always liked the style of those townhouses, with their cracked pastel paint and black window bars that loop in an aesthetically pleasing way. Even the buildings with big, dirty glass windows and trash bags floating around them, the ones that you can’t call anything but ugly, can be appreciated. It’s like there’s a residue of human inspiration left there along with the dirt. And if you are lucky enough to find some D.C. graffiti or street art, that’s human inspiration for you, left like a big stain on the wall. In most other places that inspiration gets hidden, when things get painted over and fixed too often.
     Maybe it’s just this. But in an unrelated way, I’ve just always felt your presence in D.C. Mostly when I’m riding through the city, on a bus, squeezed into the window seat. The person next to me could be anyone, really, but I’m feeling you. It’s moments like these:
     I pass a sidewalk area bathed in dim, cool lamplight, with maybe a couple concrete benches, potted plants, or steps and a railing. Until the “hotspot” is out of sight, I can almost see us there, me leaning on the railing, you sitting on the steps. We’re talking or drinking nighttime coffee or looking at our stupid phones; the details don’t really matter but the feeling does.
     So how often do I take these bus rides through D.C. and gawk at sidewalks and lamplight? Not often really; (etc. etc. etc.)