The half-moon is swallowed by the warming blue and orange. Loose cotton twirls on the asphalt, the cool breeze lifting each stray for a slow dance. It’s quiet. It’s nice.
Just a quarter-mile beyond the peace and behind community walls, the tone shifts to weeds, trash, and empty plastic pints of cheap vodka. It was once a promising sanctum, but has become yet another ordinary escape for degenerates.
No picture taken.