On lukewarm November nights, the fog crawls off the bay as the sour water rolls over the divide to drown the rain-soaked streets. The wet road is blanketed in darkness—the streetlights do not shine. They do not light the way for wanderers. Standing like soldiers at attention along the waterfront, they only glow. The globes of mellow light diffuse into

thousands of particles, like boxy pixels blurred into superfine spun sugar. The golden clouds surrounding the spheres of soft illumination are warm, yet they offer naught but cold comfort. They seem to hold the wisdom and sympathy of all others who ever felt lost, but they are selfish and deceptive, for though their glow casts a rosy veil, this veil cannot eradicate the darkness—it can only separate lamppost from the night. The bulb burns bright, but its aura cannot turn the darkness into light. This aura is illusory: it twinkles with life to all who see it, but it is false and empty at its heart. It gives no answers, asks no questions, but stands indifferent to all who pass, and any who dares to seek more will only find darkness.

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