At the End

At the termination point or intersection of vectors and planes in the concrete jungle.

I know what I am doing is pure because in all probability, I will never become wealthy from it.

At the end of the day, between too late and too early, I still follow street lines by tracing the orange sodium glow of streetlights. High upon hills and rooftops, following the single line of the grid of the endless city until it disappears into the horizon or the quiet ocean.

I walk with my head up, looking, seeing, noticing, acknowledging greatness even among the piss-soaked bum-filled streets of an unsustainable horizontal metropolis.

At the end of the day I don't think about architecture, at least actively.

I think of the air mattress waiting to receive me in my echoing basement and my morning Red Bull and the last time I had a real workout, what I will eat for my next meal, what friends-if any-I will have at the end of this endeavor.

I wonder if I can listen to the song that just came on my ipod without having a flood of guilty memories fill my head. Then I wonder why I had to lose the people I've lost along the way and whether it is ultimately worth it.

At the end of the day I still think of myself as some kind of poet. I never said a good one.

In the end, it is worth it.
My head is still full.