Down A Gravel Drive

She was warm, young, quiet, serene. We collapsed on the couch in an old haunted house, stretched out, said little. She rubbed my arm as I tried to calm down, anxious about life after brushing with death, an angry spirit roaming upstairs. Electric vibrations hit me as I reached the top landing, cold patches, waves of regret. I never understood if this residual energy was conscious or aware, but it was tangible, and I've seen doubters turn pale upon exposure. You couldn't deny its presence.

I don't know who or where she was from, but she soothed me. Soft almond eyes framed by raven hair. Wide reassuring smile. I felt nothing sexual between us, which was good, as I'm confused enough as it is. But love cut through the ethereal fog. Others wandered the house in shadow, voices tangled, distant. They paid us no mind as I sank into her arms, eyes closed, mind drifting between worlds. Then she dissolved, her sweet scent lingering like a ghost. The mad spirits were gone.

Suburbia is a cancer. Blow it all up, irradiate the soulless architecture, burn the manicured lawns. Force the fucks content with this disease out of their holding pens and into the cul-de-sacs. Their isolation makes them refugees, so let's animate this condition. A block party of the sad and lost.

There've been a million parodies of suburbia, but what has it accomplished? The prefab bullshit keeps spreading, numbed inmates multiply, concrete horizons widen. But there is hope. Strip mall decay appears permanent, the first sign of possible renewal. It'll take time for aggressive plant growth to strangle what remains, but nature is a patient assassin. We age, foundations crack, roots break through sidewalks and basements. It's coming and there's nothing we can do about it. The real Green solution will doubtless be the final one.

I slink through crowds under cover of mist, but one-to-one I open up, usually with someone who looks like they could use it. This cashier did. She returned my smile and laughed. She scanned my items while flirting back, happy to be noticed. It doesn't take much to move past social banalities. Most people embrace it. Atomized lives lead to ritual exchanges, no eye contact, no warmth. But the heart still beats, desire burns. We aren't completely dead, despite efforts to keep us that way.