Where the Sentinels Stand

She called me across the continent, and it was destined to happen because my rock was already rolling with feathers in my hair.

"You have to find the kindred spirits," my high school teacher once said, rightly assessing my outsider status.

He was correct. You gotta find your team to play this game of life. So, I took out a map and a compass then plotted my trajectory towards the west.

The sun set and cast a pale winter light on the city. At this time of year, as Spring approaches, the light has an orange hue. Beneath it, she looked spell-binding. Behind her, the snowy peaks thrusting above the urban-scape.

Some buildings are captivating, and I like taking images of them from different angles. Something new tends to reveal itself. I can see why Monet was so obsessed with haystacks.

I cannot get enough of her. For me she dressed with her cyberpunk mini-skirt with a tight shirt and a blue heart on her breast, for me she spread on the nudist beach near the tower, where we had gone under the pretext of studying for exams, for me she rocked and rolled in eons of history, sold me Iberian ham in quaint markets where everyone was bright and ruddy-cheeked, got drunk and threw up in the bushes, tanned herself under Cascadian skies with sleek seal-skin creamy in her tender loins, flashed me with her glowing neon, she rioted, danced an Irish jig, pressed herself against me during Oktoberfest, dressed in red on Latin nights and lectured me on quantum sex, then we sat on the Skytrain while the drugged-out man in the front seat looked at us wide-eyed as if he had just spotted divine figures, and said, 'you're so beautiful!' and he couldn't believe his angelic eyes, then off in the next station, we ran through sentinels of glass, and in the wet cedar grove, we made promises of mythic proportions.

Images by @litguru

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