*THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

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there is a moment after the sun has slept and before dreams awaken, when the streetlights come alive.

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some dance merrily and tragically along the curbside, fated forever to cast wistful gazes over those that speed by. they are never truly seen. their true form is to have none at all, merely a whisper of light teasing the peripheral. sparks of hope that light up the sky in an instant, just to fizzle out in the same.

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some curl themselves into the shadows, unlit and resigned to their post. chained to cement, they do not even attempt to move. they close their eyes so they cannot see the passerbys, and press palms to their ears to block out the noise. they play the waiting game of obsoletion, praying that darkness will come to turn them off forever.

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some blink erratically, casting light in desperate directions, a cry for attention and of hope. deep inside their rusted metal casings, they wish and pray that someone will see the value in their light. the results of their efforts are sour; looks are cast their way, but written there they see only fear and disgust. it drives them insane.

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some are peacefully dim, staples on the sidewalk, emitting a light that is warm and melancholy. eyes closed, they sit and pray patiently for a small stream of fortune. the rare pedestrian who passes by may offer a wave or a silver coin, a token of recognition. but a few blocks later, they forget them, lost to the mundane repetition of every day life.

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the currents of the crowd wash down the street, drowning these streetlight souls. they dance, they cry, they lie, in wait, for the day they might leave their posts...

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