City Crossing

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Cars going. Cars coming. Cars whizzing through the night, in endless streams, forming a line of red leading inwards, a line of white leading outwards. On the side of a four lane road, a fairy tale house with three towers and seven roofs, full alit, shining like an ufo that fell from the sky. The door open. The view to the floor open from the street. No one there, in the floor, in the rooms behind the window. A life size still life.

In town, mazes of metal, of stone. Two yellow buses crossing on a bridge, in the very moment the traffic light underneath turns green. Three trees on the left side, remnants of the time before asphalt. Prisoners of the streets they are, there is no way out for them, not to the left, not to the right. So they stand. Reaching for the sky with their black arms.

At the train station, a sign saying Agra. As if it was close. As if it wasn't two continents away. Between a media maxistore and a company called clockhouse: a plastic half moon, dangling in the air, accompanied by fallen stars.

At a crossing, a woman in a long white coats. On the other side of the street, a guy in an orange jacket. Maybe their eyes will meet, somewhere, for a moment, while they cross to the other side. Maybe we all met, somewhere, in between streets.