Lichen

The perpetual twilight of the city blots out the stars and blinds me with its arrogant glow. The dull static panic of sitting still begins to squeeze in on me. My seatbelt is a serpent, restricting ever tighter. My feet ache to feel the damp tight coils of moss on a fallen log. My lungs scream for the crisp bite of fresh mountain air as they circulate the grime and filth of this cracked asphalt purgatory. I am increasingly repulsed by the cool glare of linoleum under fluorescent lights, by the crumbling concrete barrier of a disheveled traffic island, by the ceaseless whine of cars. An unsavory wind blows the slick oil and grease smell of the Chinese restaurant across the street against me and my stomach turns. How do I survive in the city.