Urban Depression

The river is green. It smells like rotten eggs, pushing leftovers towards the ocean. Sulpher, I’m told, but what does that even mean? Why do bad eggs and dirty rivers smell the same?

I’d chosen the river as a reference point, something somewhat natural to walk next to, but you can’t walk next to it. So I walk on the dusty, red brick sidewalk, knowing the water is somewhere to my left, separated from me by apartment buildings and small businesses. 

I brought the camera, though I’m not sure why. There’s nothing to photograph here. Nothing that isn’t hard gray rising skyward, or a spare tree planted to take away from the sharpness of the steel.

My arms ache from rock climbing yesterday, and my hamstrings are tight from the workout I did in my living room. I want to run, but not here. Not on this damn concrete.


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