Creepy:

Late on a Saturday night, or early on a Sunday morning:

The flattening middle teen streets of Santa Monica:

Cast over in marine layer, taste of oil and fish and weed:

Deserted and soundless:

Then the sound of bicycle wheels in slow and vibrant rotation:

Strewn leaves crunch in surrender:

Bicycle carries a person, a thing, a body in dark clothes:

Then:

A disjointed, atonal whistle, a dirge of grave significance.

(You are alone, have I mentioned that? It's too late, you are too tired, you have your keys in your hand, this is Santa Monica, what ever happens in Santa Monica, rich people live in Santa Monica, nothing ever happens to rich people, seventeen steps until you reach your car, sixteen, nothing ever happens, fifteen, coming closer, fourteen, god what a memory that is, thirteen, the day you first came to the beach, remember, twelve, you were so small, a girl-thing, eleven, your father drove the car through the tunnel, ten, you saw the ocean sparkling like a liquid mirror, nine, the air was heavy with salt, eight, you ran to the edge of the water, seven, the waves beat upon the raw shore, six, no one could stop it, five, you cannot remember, four, the bicycle is almost here, three, all you want is a melody, two, something to cling to, one, something that makes sense. Zero.)