Like a Pacific tide it flows, one nightly cycle through a salt marsh of Scene. Waves of moment wash vari-colored plankton of Audience past the many gin mill pools where sedentary bands extend siphons and flagella to sweep hapless scenesters into digestion tracts with enzymes of illusory significance.
As the tide ebbs, beyond last call, the scribbler crabs scuttle a sideways rummage through memory's detritus seeking fragments of decayed meaning to masticate into copy columns in which eggs of exhortation hype may hatch into the next big thing and six figure advances.
And then... the moment of stillness beyond exertions of anonymous night crews sorting spent beer bottles and emptying ash trays.
Beyond this insular petri dish of teeming nocturnes who dream away daylight lies the swirl of terrestrial cycles with traffic on the threes and news summaries on the hour and half hour.
Although the terrestrial and the marine interact at the strand line of day job, laundromat and supermarket, they are largely discrete from one another.
And, as the ripples of amplitude carry ever further from the point where the trend dropped, still other cycles, older, more familiar to denizens of a distant past, express periodicity that increasingly converge with actual daily adjustments of the revolving global axis before solar radiance.
And, believe it or not, near the point where the sine wave flattens, vestiges of village and stone age still cling, still cling.
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