late at night, after tourists have gone home, soho again regains its solumn beauty, bestowing both order and grace upon the space with its tightly knitted and neatly constructed brownstones. the streets are clearer, except perhaps some lovers who prefer to linger on.
and the access to the basement would fling open, people would pop out of them, and light would leak out of the underground. strong and silent men produce garbage from beneath, and unload supplies for tomorrow. these jarring doors, they always scare me a little. they feel like swamps. these men, in their brute power and loneliness, feel like crocodiles.
i think, right now, soho feels like a crocodile colony.
the air is rancid. does crocodile breath smell like this?
and the wall of soho's brownstones, they'd feel a little curved at night, as if they were going to bend out of shape under the influence of some spell.
not far, a woman plays hula hoops to amuse herself. other people look on with gazes that are either mesmerized or indifferent, or both.
i think of her as a little mermaid on an island of crocodiles.
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