A reflection in sepia

There's always something sinister about streets with ruined buildings. It's like the dead houses disintegrate into the air, into the ground, like the deadness bleeds into the plants and the walls nearby. Animals act strange in those streets, their wide eyes fixed on invisible points, or they avoid them altogether. The wind blows strangely and the lighting is warm and orange, like it's old light, a reflection in sepia of earlier times.

There is a point at the street down my house where, precisely today, precisely at the time I was passing by, I could see the moon risen above the rooftops and at the same time, look at the traffic mirror in front of me and gaze into the downward slope of the street behind. I felt as if I was standing at a huge X on the ground, where two lines cross, where I could see things that are hidden. A place where I could see the most of the world. The coordinates would be denoted as Xopt, Yopt. Or rather (X,Y)opt. It would be a function of time. T(x),T(y).

This is a time for shifting chairs in balconies and climbing up on rooftops. I want the concrete to dust my clothes, scrape my hands, warm my core. I wonder if my psycho neighbour will chop me into bits, then shoot me in the head and feed me to his baby boy if I dare throw a party.