somewhere south of market

Out walking yesterday among industrial precincts, I stumbled upon the artist's studio.

The door was open.

I entered without invitation, making my way through the gloom of clutter--spilled paint, abandoned welding torches, a disembowled motorcycle--toward the small lonely figure of the artist himself, at work.

No words passed between us, as there was nothing to say.

In the sanctity of the rubble, in the stillness of this cathedral of creation, I admired the artworks, gleaming with precision yet flush with the modernist ethos of chaos and chance, as they stood up against the wall.