Your eyes are weary, little city, hospital beds so heavy. Shutter. Shutter brief. There is no need for a long sleep. Your smooth freeways will not wrinkle before you awaken. Your tallest palms will not bald before you open again. It will be soon, so soon. Shutter, shutter. Let the ocean fog tap on the windows of homes full of people and dreams. Let it whisper those dreams into empty restaurants and stores. The water has always led us. Shutter, shutter, so it may hold us all like fishes beloved, so it may wash through streets and count us twice, and cleanse the air of everything that is not the blue-sky dream. You are weary, little city. Shutter. Shutter brief.
When you wake up, I promise, the clouds will have not aged at all.
Day 29 of 30.