Thoughts at Lucca's Coffeehouse

I wandered last night. Moving around through the desolate cities creates almost a false sense of refinery. For some reason each time I turn a corner and I'm greeted by hundreds of buildings I feel as though mankind as achieved something... yet it's a strange paradox. The streets are ghostly on their own. The freezing glare of the store fronts seem wicked apart from the hustle of people. A busy street carries a certain charm, I must admit; but without the people, a city is an amazingly empty place.

Nature, on the other hand, holds a certain ability to posses beauty apart from man... usually more so the less man is involved. A empty canyon still rings with magnitude and perhaps a sense of man's SMALLNESS. Nighttime in a dark wood is a harrowing experience; but it haunts us not because of it's death, but because of it's life. The possibility of danger creates fear. In an empty city, though, the solitude of emptiness creates something a bit different than fear. It could perhaps be better described as futility - the hollow empty feeling that everything man attempts is worthless.

Staring at the dark tangerine store fronts and listening to the faint hum of a sleeping city creates that gap... it can only best be described as that. An urge... a gap... a hunger. The empty pangs you feel when you are hungry but only within your soul and your mind this time. And it feels so insatiable! It is as though your hungering can only be forgotten, never filled.

Smoky air breathed in by hollow people. There is something soothing about coffee houses - in a strange almost disconcerting way. Again, only man's best. I wish I were sitting on a quiet dock by a midnight lake with the constant breeze and the blinking lights of the far shore. The subtle slap of the water against the slimy wooden posts... the slow moving stars and the occassional cloud. Scents of pine, wet wood and damp earth. And the only other noise is the occasional blowing of a moose or the obvious gurgle of a jumping bass.