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I love the feeling of walking home at two-thirty in the morning. All of the empty streets go on directing imaginary traffic into lanes that put non-existent cars at the correct turn, unaware that they've exhausted their usefulness for the day. The neon sign announcing PGE PARK continues to proclaim it's iridescent statement, but there is nobody to hear it. The bus stops wait empty for somebody to come by and wait with them.

At this lonely hour, the whole city feels like it's mine. Only I have this moment, anybody else who might be around is usually too wasted to notice it for what it is. For they are weighing heavy on this hour, and I am simply passing through unnoticed. Like Emerson's transparent eyeball, I observe, but I'm not really here like the drunk wandering back to his crack apartment, or the occasional Geo Metro is here. They become passing enigmas on my city canvas, a part of my scenery. I, on the other hand, am as empty and as peaceful as the glow for nobody from the street lights above.