I read on the back deck as the clouds cover the sun, and disperse. I take xanax-fueled silent breaks fromt he helvetica printed neatly across the pages and notice the clouds are, not so neatly, on a collision course. I wonder if the molecules worry bout this, if there's little molecular air controllers guiding the rain around the world. The clouds float idly  by one another - maybe the slightest pieces of one formation jumping ship to the other.

I look up and notice the clouds stretch on what seems like infinitely and believe the sun has called in his replacement, content to go home and read a good book with a glass of wine. As the temperature drops, I say my goodbyes to the people who have invited me into their home as a guest, even if I hardly (if at all) spoke to them.

As I drive back into the city, it occurs to me just how much like a monster the key bridge looks - a terror above the freeway, threatening to throw cars, and their tiny occupants, into the water below. The cranes and chutes from all the factories and ports along the highway only further the evil, menacing look of the slowly dying trade industry.

As I compare cranes and bridges to monsters, it occurs to me it's time to leave Baltimore for destinations elsewhere; I have no idea why it strikes me, but just as sudden as it hits Kerouac, it's time to go. For what reasons? Running from the cranes and bridges I've imaginarily given monstrous traits to. The american dream? I can't say for certain; all I know is that it's time to go.