From a distance the city center twinkles with a brightly lit image of
life.  But this assumed pulse is a false one for this city is a dead
man walking.  Saturated with the overwhelming heat from the first
breath of summer I stalk the depths of the concrete jungle as I creep
to the bewitching hour.  The swelter rises from the asphalt long after
sundown and even in the grips of twilight the steel and glass
structures radiate with calefaction hitting as hard as a sledge
hammer.  People move through the maze of multistoried buildings with a
purpose.  Where they go I do not know for none of them stop amongst
the structures that scrape the sky.

This city is a siren where the lights beckon forth the unaware
traveler to a place of destitution.  Upon arrival of these shores
those who journey forth find the spires comparable to a carcass washed
upon a sandy shore; stripped to the bone and only a bleached skeletal
remain of something that once was living.  The fact that the buildings
glassy sides reflect back black at the midnight hour makes it all the
more unsettling.  The few places still fighting for life are scattered
drinking dens, a handful of empty fast food eateries and a lone
twenty-four hour drug store.  Any souls that are found amongst the
abandon steeples are translucent caricatures.  They resemble real
people but take on the dying attributes of the shadows they move
amongst and their vacant stares reflect their ghoulish facades.

The final addition to the pictures of demise is the stench that
accompanies it.  The main thoroughfare has been ripped to shreds and
gutted with construction that is never ending.  In this ongoing
process the very skin of the dying city is torn asunder and ripped open
exposing the very bowels of the place.  The sickly smell of sewage
floats amongst the corridors making it look and smell as if it is
rotting to the core.  The stench stays with me always.

With a deep sigh and a longing glance, it is this place that I escape
from near the bewitching hour.  Even though I am acutely aware of the
carnage I am in the midst of I can't help but angle my journey so that
I swing towards the center of this mess.  When I have gotten my fill
and just as I near the heart of the beast I veer sharply away and run
to the south.

A lone sign blinks in the darkness between street lights.  In an
efficient LED format the first flash reminds me that I am once again
out entirely too late and a few seconds later the second flash reminds
me that even this late at night the outside temperature is still warm
enough that I should probably have my sun roof closed; 12:01AM, 93
degrees.  Except for the brief moment of clarity that goes as quickly
as it came, I ignore this electronic messenger pressing down the
accelerator continuing my flight.

I journey further south slipping past the quiet bergs that line that
mark the perimeter of the dying place.  On a lonely stretch of freeway
where big rigs make midnight runs and busses full of shackled
prisoners trail me down exit ramps I momentarily lose sight of the
beast from which I flee.  With the first jarring bounce of car chassis
against railroad tracks the top of the faraway turrets flicker into
view.

I haste away through a no man's land.  Jet planes roar overhead and I
am momentarily choked and my eyes burn as jet fuel fumes cascades on
the dilapidated structures all around me.  Past the third world
housing developments and razor wire topped prison the putrid odor of
perpetually mixing asphalt, concrete and the rancid smell of diesel
engines permeate the air.  With what seems like sluggish progress
(even though my vehicle tells me that 60 mph is way too fast) the huge
expanses of junk yards, rock quarries and concrete companies
eventually give way to a bridge.

This is a bridge to no where.  Its sole function is to span a
virtually dry river bed that is void of liquid life for nearly 365
days each year.  The sun blasted rocks do nothing to abate the parched
and uncomfortably warm night.  Layers of dust are stirred up as I roar
overhead choking the air with a fine layer of allergy inducing haze.
Just as this nightmare has past the nostrils are assaulted again this
time with the bile inducing waft of saw dust.  The smell of lumber and
plastic baked for weeks on end by an unyielding sun wouldn't be so bad
if my race south weren't postponed by a solid red traffic light.  As I
gag and grimace I once again refocus on the dying city now taking up
the entire view in my backwards looking mirror.  Individual buildings
can still claw at the horizon be; shuddering with revulsion I escape
further still with the blessing of a green light.

Now I can see my destination with clarity.  The mass of darkness
moving ever closer directly in front of me is broken up by the last
vestiges of civilization clinging to the rocky slopes and the angry
red lights topping a menagerie of radio towers. Yet another layer of
third world suburbs passes by faster now and the well lit glow of
civilization are whittled away little by little.

With suddenness that after all this time still surprises me the grips
of the dying city give way with a rush of open space.  Cool air
surrounds me and my frantic escape velocity ceases. It is here that I
stop.  In the shadow of the mountain I turn and face the city that has
faded to a far off skyline.  While the enticing tendrils can still
reach me here the power they wield is easily shrugged aside when I am
not trapped within the heart of the thing.  Cutting the engine the
sound of tranquility is with me and with a blissful smile I inhale
deeply through my nostrils.  The air is clean and free from the
overwhelming deluge of the dying city and the nothingness spreads out
all around me.

Closing one eye and cocking my head to the side I squish the skyline
between thumb and forefinger.  Five minutes later I have grown weary
of the fresh air and nothingness.    Being outside the grips of a dying
city is a bore; nothingness might be tranquil but it sure does place
limitations on possibilities.  At least within the grips of the dying
city I have the option of buying maxi-pads at 3AM on a Tuesday.

In spite of the sweltering night I shiver once again alive with
masochistic anticipation.  In the distance the dying city sings a siren
song and I must obey.