The quiet city.

The quiet city craves solemnity.

A solemnity in the wee hours of a December’s eve when two people are driving through the commonly bustling city, watching the lights turn from red to green. When the humans and creatures are tucked safely in their beds. When the teenagers and the drunks are hiding in the corners, whispering secrets to the soul. When the music sways you gently to sleep as you round the corners. When all is alive but, all is dead.

A solemnity in the wee hours of a December’s eve when one person stands on the porch, watching the flickering Christmas lights that have yet to be taken down. When the air is chilly but, the body is warm. When you can hear your own heartbeat amidst the wind howling through the branches of the barren trees. When all is alive but, all is dead.

A solemnity in the wee hours of a December’s even when nobody feels or sees the pain of a city that is so often full of pain. When the rain is reflected off the pavement and the streets. When you walk down the street lost in your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams. When you hum softly to yourself all the songs that hold so much meaning in your heart. When all is alive but, all is dead.

The quiet city craves solemnity. And it is what the quiet humans in the wee hours of a December’s eve willingly give. When all is alive but, all is dead.

 

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