You see the lifeblood dripping back into a couple veins - a tiny queue of hip restaurants on Michigan Ave., some newly-buffed, shiny buildings right downtown, a local college with students walking into class.
But, for the overwhelming slice, it felt like we were walking through a skeleton. The bare bones of what once was. Blocks and blocks and blocks of derelict everything.
Boarded up apartment buildings with bullet holed windows.
Nearly razed homes, the front steps walking up to nothing.
Entire factories full of aged graffiti and industry dust.
Corner lots locked up and standing sullenly silent
The Michigan Central Station, hollow and forlorn, with only the sun to accompany it through each passing day.
The Michigan Theater, once a spiffy, entertaining beacon built in the Renaissance Revival, now a car park.
We popped a Bruce Springsteen tape in and sipped fresh coffee and bought Motown records and ate fried chicken, so there were these crisp, wonderful road trip details that littered the day, but what keeps running through my mind is how quiet it was.
I don't remember hearing anything. No birds, no dogs, not even leaves rolling by on the ground. What little traffic there was tiptoed by, almost unnoticed.
You only hear the wind.
This lonely sigh billowing over cracked windows into empty, abandoned rooms and hitting boarded-up front doors.
This lonely sigh whisking over vacancy and dead grass.
This lonely sigh wandering the city only surviving on nostalgia.