Small-town.

The air is heavy.

It is heavy, and it holds warmth.

What crackling vinyl, what blunt-shining street lights!

We are drunk on their glow, on the aesthetic blur,

And the flickering of headlights: passing, passing, always passing.

Like ethereal stars, like transient fireflies;

Flashing in and out of life, flashing in and out of the alleyways.

So little to do, so much to do, and not enough time for either.

Productivity and fast breathing and ceaseless rush give way to lazy afternoons, swollen with sun.

And still the muted harshness of the distant engines.

For this is the life of those who have achieved, but are yet to achieve.

This is the tired neighborhood.