It’s directly related to the feeling that it’s the 18th century. The momentary lack of identity as the flickering light, like gas street lamps, cascade down watery roads.
       The rivulets carry ashes and newly fallen leaves into the gutter. The music and voices from inside blend into buzz, indistinguishable.
       It’s related to the idea that time is an all encompassing sheet laid out over the universe. Not, as some claim, a line of causality moving us from gathering to disseminating.
       A group walks by, uncaring, unaware. They walk in sequence trailing them a line a smoke dissipating into the stillness of the night. A cigarette filter washes into the sewer as they turn a corner, followed by, but briefly, a wash of vapor.
       It is related the notion that it all went wrong, or it all could be right again. The totality of thoughts laid out over conscience like a singular sheet, all pervasive.
       The shine of the streets moves as cars pass, as the motions of stars shift through the passive night. The air sits quietly in patient genuflection for the small miracles contained in oil-slicked water moving, but slowly, into the gutter.
       It all begins, and ends, in the abstract of company. The notion of a shared universe populated by ideas and forms much like yourself, or complete detachment. Its terminus and its origin share the same coordinate value; share the notion that it’s still the 18th century, and the light reflecting off the street will carry some small forgiveness.