Warp rider

Dusk, when the sky is a glittery dark blue, fringed to a deep purple, earth takes on an aura of faint white light, and the sun is a disapearing fire on the horizon.

A slight coldness seizes you, on your bike, at full speed down the streets, the wind makes you cry, and millions of lights dazzle you.

You can have an inquisitive sight on people's evening lives, through bright windows coming out of the falling night.

Slouched in their sofas in front of their enormous tv set, surrounded by random and most useless stuff to create the atmosphere they prefer to relax.

In their tiny kitchens, watching carefully a pot on the gas stove.

A bedroom, on the first floor, with every wall patched with football players posters, quite messy and oppressive, obsessional.

The monuments look bigger, with more edge, cutting through the air on a threatening stance, it's old and raspy, rusty chains and rings you want to touch, carving of faces or scenes from the past, deformed.

The modern style glassy and slick next to scaled façades with wobbly wooden shutters, the first one is mainly three, four floors residences with lighted stakes along the alleys leading into the place, the second still made of tiles on the roof and display small tidy gardens over the porches, people recreate the inside of their mind with bushes, strands of grass and figurines.

You'll cross the web of the train tracks countless times, deeper you go in the suburb, a bell and flickering poles will warn you to stop and stare, if you're crafty, and quick, you can slither down the ditch and carry your bike across to keep your momentum.

Maybe you'll enjoy too the fancy lighting of stores and restaurants along the biggest roads, changing colored lights, expensive and useless, trying to create a cosy, attractive mood, but you're only passing, fast, you can't pause, you need to ride, getting ecstatic over the different places.

The busy malls still open with their indecent neon letters, promising to satisfy all your needs, the alabaster on the churches vicinity, mirroring and shiny, it's so good to ride in silence on it, watched by the imposing godly structures.

Every house presents a peculiar color, and when you see a black one you are stunned, like you found the dark dwelling of count Dracula, so unusual, the materials are giving the expressions, and the many forms, crooked or stiff, will make you wonder, if some people are aware they are living on a bridge, with air right below the thin floor of their living room.

You'll find incredible some fumes have a taste of pistachio, and some families use a washing powder so potent that around their houses soap fills the air.

Animals are crossing your way, swiftly, with their bellies grazing the tarmac, perched on a fence, they turn back and watch straight at you, a glare in their opalescent eyes, ready to escape if the idea to stroke them and approach rises in you, so you stare back and continue, smiling wildly.

The night is busy, you stop, you climb sidewalks with a push on your legs, you're attentive for sudden walkers barging off gates and paths, how many street signs you ignore, how many one-way streets you wrongly descended or climbed, that's freedom at the possible cost of your life, you're just a warp rider, alone in those perceptions and so many more, and no one cares.