The Return

I come out onto the roof. I no longer know where I am. The black rooftop floats like a lost raft amidst lights and buildings. Between the gusts of wind, the lights blink. They wink at me.

In the distance, skyscrapers still scrape the sky. In the distance the sun has set over behind them. Tomorrow it will rise again on the other side. It will find nothing new. All is as it was. All will be as it has been. It will find nothing.

I walk around. I know this raft well. I have sailed through many nights on it. I inspect it for changes. It has none. Several empty beer cans roll around in the wind.

On my sides the island lies empty and dark. A thousand dead babies, the buildings surround me. They blink their windows. People are dining inside, where its lit, in the womb of each child. But the children are not yet pregnant. They are not yet alive. And so the night lies quiet. The river flows empty, only its current swashing on the sides of the raft.

In the womb of the city it is quiet. The children do not speak.

Neither do I.