Off the train, up to Market, you discovered a separate city of quarter films and hustlers, of veterans who wore the clothes they were given, of mothers who awoke to find the safety pins missing, pierced into the lips of three-chord punks who couldn’t tune. On the street, dogs with teeth like jewelry. A history written in brick and fracture. All around you were vestiges: ornate colonnades, statues of soldiers, streets minted with the names of robber barons, a dome rusted to the color of the dollar. Once the city shook and burned. Now it seemed the citizens were in ruins: pink facade of the hospital through mist, the sick with views of the ocean and bridge.
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