“.. he could not find a word which would dispel that hostile silence;  he then walked toward the door slowly, resignedly, hanging his head, while someone else, someone forever turning his back, walked at the same pace in the opposite direction into the depths of the mirror, through the row of empty rooms which did not exist.“    – Bruno Schulz,  Street of Crocodiles

Detroit is a shadow now,  I’m far away, home – far from that place which embodies sleep, that which the Surrealists enthused to exist within;  the waking dream, a fall from grace descending and deriving beauty from the hideous, perfumed with misery, a colorful mix of monotones.   The harmony of life is that all things assembled are coming undone.  Some cities are destined to perish from memory, from prescience as time allows  each of us to believe that things will be again as they were before.

Boast of Quietness - By Jorge Luis Borges

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and my death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of the same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits,
An old sword, the willow grove’s visible prayers as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive.

- Jorge Luis Borges