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Every now and then, before breaching to the surface like a sailor placidly landing on a coast he never missed, I find myself being a vagabond of the storm drains. Carved and shaped by humans, they are one of these underappreciated feats of engineering often taken for granted by the spoiled overground inhabitants. Contrary to what lies deeper, the drains retain some characteristic traits of their sunbathed creators. A veritable museum of cartesian perception, unornamented and decisive geometry rivaling constructivist architecture.
In this premeditated raw meander of geometric tunnels, my senses find peace. My hearing appeased by the incessant trickle of rainwater. My sight at rest in presence of resolute lines, vast geometry sharply lit in the conical halo of my torch. Cold against my skin yet reassuringly solid the smooth concrete soothes my touch. Running, alone, ever smaller in an expanding subterranean avenue I praise this deprived environment and despise the instant when at the center of the forthcoming obscurity a small shape of outside brightness might appear.
