deep dish peat moss posted:

The streets whose hearts pump the beats of jazz are below you. Three men silently board a bus and the bus makes that "Hrmph!" sound buses make when they close the door. Seventeen different Reeboks echo off the ball court down the boulevard. You look in the backlit windows of offices and retail warehouses and the Temple of Beelzebub located in the still-beating heart of Downtown Chicago. In their windows are frozen memoranda of microcosmic worlds you will never be a part of. Corner-window water coolers and beanbag pagodas in front of vast oceans of TV screen, and fresh-cleaned sacrificial altars. The wind plays the drums like an octopus in heat against a tin rooftop nearby. If you listen clearly you can hear the steaming voice of the city springing free from the pores in concrete, chanting in tongues. A piece of police caution tape flutters by on the city's world-famous wind. The sidewalk looks like a moon, splashed in craters of hardened, dried chewing gum. A shadowy figure in a trenchcoat yells out to you from below, so you descend to listen. The shadowy figure tells you to never stop for strangers in The Chicago, then throws their trenchcoat wide open and asks if you want to buy some DVDs.

We've all been there, alone on the Mean Streets in the middle of the night, just a defenseless disembodied floating head, trying to get away from the wicked peddler begging you to buy a limited edition bootleg blu-ray of "Thank You For Smoking Pole". The city is home to many talented local mooses or meese. That fact is irrelevant to your current plight, but your mind always goes to strange places when in the ever-mystic eternal forgotten city of Chicago.