Rain. Night. City. Bike.

I’m alive.  I breathe.  I feel my ribs push out, pull in and I feel my heart’s slow contractions.  I feel its pace quicken as I step harder on the pedals.  The city bleeds under thick black clouds of rain, the gutters rush with sooty water.  Reflections scatter on the glossed asphalt.  I fly.   Everything breaks into ripples of raindrops, millions of tiny violent impacts.  A silver haze.  The tires of my bike spray me front and back, the rain darkens my jeans and heavies my shirt.  Drenched.  It baptizes me under dome of cloud and wall of concrete, in the pulsing light of a living metropolis, an eerie ambient light at this dead-end of night.
I would Holler now.  Shout out the pleasure of this moment, countless trails of water tickling and pricking my skin, the hum of tires on inundated streets, my muscles flexing under soaked denim, the pungent reek of a wet city.
But there’s no need.  My body screams for me, in its movement, in its infinite little connections with this thundering exterior world.  I stand up on the pedals, sprint, throwing the bike from side to side.  Cars sit like discarded husks on the side of the road, empty carcasses aligned by some divine hand into neat lines.  I flash by them.  They blur.  Mean nothing.
Red lights become a cautious green for me, the green lights spike my veins with  “YES!” and “YES!”.   And the rain pours down in mercury sheets and lightning backlights the square teeth of the city.  And I’m surrounded and enveloped by the inspiring hiss of so much falling water.  And thunder clamors above.  And this body, this bike, this street, this city, this world, they are so obviously mine.  All mine
“Move”  it all says “move fast, now, revel, push, listen, meditate, make it worthwhile.  Be, for fuck’s sake.   BE!”