I arrived much obliged, having waited quite some time to reside in Tinseltown. But what I’d marveled at from afar—what I thought were stars—turned out to be headlights from cars.
Cars covering every inch of this place, in an invisible race to somewhere over the rainbow. Somewhere is a third floor suite they go to to eat this year's young meat, some dime piece whose last three apartments were on the same street--more rooms than homes, which is fine if you're alone.
And we are alone. Waiting in fear of the day it's made clear our mark's not been made here, not by us or by them or any living breathing thing--and we just disappear.
The highways are the cities skies, lit with the spark our cars create in the dark. The road's not yellow or red or brick or stone, it's the usher that guides us as we try to get home.