Anyone who says all cities are all the same has never gotten to know one. Each has its own distinct personality, a vibe that differentiates it from all others. A unique fingerprint.
Skylines bring the sexy. Familiar building shapes painted against the sky, immutable until the next inevitable round of development.
Early June. Dusk is descending, hope is rising. The salt air wafts in from behind and surrounds us, enveloping us in its scarcely noticeable mist.
This might happen elsewhere, but not in the exact same way. The scent would be different, the angles of light, the individuals in place. All variables that affect the final equation in unknowable ways.
In the beginning there is only possibility. Then events occur, leading to outcomes. This process repeats itself indefinitely. Well, there is an end, but none of us will ever know it.
Although wouldn't that be something? To witness the world's final act, dusk descending one last time, taking its last bow before fading into nothing. Maybe not fading, maybe more exploding. It's better to explode than to fade away, which is what the song should have said.
That is all an incomprehensibly long way from now, when optimism still abounds. When skylines and hope remain intact. When possibilities spring up like new buildings.
Minerals and attitudes. Shape of things to come and go.
It all sounds like some manifesto gone horribly awry. The ravings of a lunatic who had a point but can't remember what it was. Something about cities, and the plight of a species or a planet, and the sea and the stars and the sky. And the end, always the end.
What the hell, I just work here. Words build sentences that form paragraphs as part of larger stories that will exist for a time and then explode.