© Mike Osborne
Here in America, I'm shivering under the red light on Mediterranean Avenue. I'm waiting for my friend, and she's late. A constant rain fell this evening, which has only recently eased, and the road is slick, reflecting neon.
The deepening blue of a darkening sky and the off-kilter red lights smear on the asphalt in gentle tones of muted fuchsia and chambray, daubed with sporadic yellow and white. Yellow hydrant and the X-ray backdrops of winter trees. I might believe it a painting if it weren't for the water dripping from my umbrella down the back of my neck.
It's a place that absorbs all sound. A place where quiet storms rage.
"FML" by Kanye West is playing somewhere in the world or inside my head.
Somewhere looking to flood. Somewhere looking to scare you, with its ghosts of vehicles, its human absence.
I'm animal. I self-haunt. I sing to you, I'm hoarse, I don't understand my loss, I see a miniature horse on a fence line, happy, beside a solar panel.
Something big came through but we never even saw it.