Entertainment District

by: alex deng I had taken too long of a hit and the over-lit subway car was searing stars into my vision. When I got off, I went to the archive looking for a phrase that enters the paragraph through buried pipes and streetcar tracks. Voices drowned out by another unpaid phone bill. Jackhammers, cigarette butts, bus stops all owned by a sentinel in the sky that car-bombs whistleblowers. I was moving as a particle through the collider, as a GO train moving to the end of the sentence like CCTV porch lights. The ad across from where I was sitting was selling Nicorette spray. Relief in as little as thirty seconds. Below it, a respirator, a suitcase looking for a proper noun, someone carrying their manager in their backpack and a flâneur collecting street signs. Everybody was writing their autobiographies in the 4x4s, moving at supersonic speeds toward the high windows.