serene, almost angelic the lights of the city extend over lumbering behemoths shrilly screeching displeasure they say: that nothing is certain that nothing man dreams or ordains long endures his command
here the streetlights that flicker and those blazing steadfast seem one from a distance descend? they abruptly part ways
so that nothing is one which at times does not suddenly blend into garish insignificance in the familiar alleyways in the white neon flash and the billboards of convenience
and man seems the afterthought of his own brilliance as we thunder down the enlightened runways