scruta

Nestled inside the concrete groves, where the defunct filaments of ancient telephone wires spindle downwards like vines, that’s where you’ll find it. Underneath the roaring overpasses, where feral cats prowl through the parks bathed in blue luminescence, that’s where you’ll find it. In underground basement cacophonies where restless youths throw their bodies akimbo, screaming silent in the din,  reeling for revelation in the flashing strobes, that’s where you’ll find it. Through the afternoon alleys where wizened old figures sit on bamboo chairs, tittering with a litany of times that came and went, slowly sucking the life out of tea leaves, that’s where you’ll find it. In the ring of a bicycle bell, in the idle honk of a taxi horn, in the ping of fried noodle vendors’ woks, in the snore of a bricklayer lying idle in the afternoon, in the whisper of the trees in the storm blown winds, in the mumbles of a child working on his homework in a dimly lit hardware store, in your own breathless sigh, in that never-ending hum, that’s where you’ll find it.