My day always starts at Fisherman’s Terminal, where the local catches are offloaded. Salmon, oysters, sturgeon, halibut, the smells are there even before the sun has even thought about creeping out from behind the Cascades. When the sun begins to come up, I jet over to Laurelhurst. The best view to see the red, the yellow, and the brilliant orange interspersed between the thick grey clouds. Glancing down to my right, I noticed the daily traffic on the floating bridge was already gridlocked. They were the workers, the lifeblood of This Town. My Town.
By noon, a homeless man had yet to have his stare met by someone at least bold enough to look him in the eye and say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m not giving you anything.’ Then an SPD officer drew on a drug addict and a teenager tagged a bus station. Why do they hurt me? Why are they so malicious in This Town.
The sun was setting over Puget Sound, when it sank behind the Olympics, the shadow left the mountain range completely dark giving it a two dimensional appearance. The whores were out on Aurora, and Pioneer Square was filling up with the homeless looking for a “comfy” wooden bench to spend the night, hopefully it wouldn’t rain. What can I do? I need to leave This Town.
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