On the shore

The city is beautiful. It is like a giant shimmering lake of light, encroached upon on one side by a giant shimmering lake of liquid and jello quaking. The buildings tower and I sit still, like a rock on the edge of it. Boats swim and stream along the edges, near the rocks where I am one, and the water rushes in their wake; disturbed like a cup of soup in a shaky hand. The wake creates waves, rushing out ponderously from the boat's path. The path can be seen in the light that the city gives off, even when most of it is asleep. The stars barely make a mark in the sky; we are turned in upon ourselves, here in the big cities. The rest of the world and the galaxy and the universe hardly exist, compared to our work schedules and alarm clocks and appointments. The water rushes outward and slaps like a friend at the rocks, where I am one. Mist hovers above the lake, a parting gift from the heat of the day; one that will last through the night till the sun comes around again, coming up over the lake like a great big friend and a great big hug. The night won't last.