The 81 is mercifully empty tonight - plenty of open seats. It's starting to get dark earlier now as we float toward September. Actually, it feels more like falling toward the bottom of the year, once you've passed the summer solstice. I'm actually feeling butterflies in my stomach now, as I think about falling further into the future.
The steps down Angel's Flight always smell like the zoo. Down on Hill Street, just outside Grand Central Market, various figures hunched at picnic tables, clutching stuffed plastic bags. A shirtless man was lying belly up and unconscious on the sidewalk, bags, bottles, and papers strewn around him, as if he had tumbled and spun to the ground, spraying his possessions as he fell.
The 81 barrels down Figueroa through Highland Park, bent on Colorado. As I waited for the bus a guy biked by, the 10 passed, and a plane cruised over downtown, leaving a pink contrail in the sunset. People should stay in one place more often.