black & white hollywood.
On some nights, when the lighting is just right, I pretend I’ve walked into the tired frames of a Hollywood film.
I listen to the rain as it falls with sadness from a street lamp, the ancient gentleman with his head hung low, punctuating an already-tragic scene. I allow my mind to listen for stirring things in a moment of exasperated stillness—the torture of a setting conflicting with restless dreams. In this particular frame of this particular film I’d be waiting, though for what or whom you, dear watcher, would not yet know.
I’d take an exaggerated pull from a cigarette, I’d lock eyes with an alley cat on his nightly rounds. I’d breathe deep the static of this damp evening, unsure of my role in it all.
Black and white nights are for suspended living—caught someplace between exposition and conflict, between all that was and what might be.
—this post was grown on the gram.