On the corner of 6th Street and Red River Road, dangling lights sweep the pockmarked sky; snare drums stutter from every point of reference, and mutual infectious sovereignty sprays all those who walk among the free. Never has anyone ever seen a moon this blue. Its shadow a spotted orange from the cascades of bats making their grand exit from concrete refuge. Inside, men and women sit and stand at tables, booths, and bars planted in their ways, outside they glide across the stocky cobblestones and aren’t afraid of the dark. The electric aura that shines as bright as the owl-shaped tower beams down upon the street dwellers, and they gratefully respond with suiting gestures.
Congressional Hearing of the Warehouse District by Michael Brennan