lying-fallow

I once wrote about a statue beckoning from a building on this street whose name has always plucked away at my intumescent heart...
the contemplative and reclusive rue des Solitaires echoes a nostalgic no man's land, a romantic retrenchment, a sentimental seclusion...
[I returned recently to find my invincible statue still solitary but the building had been freshly repainted an odd green, not the soft celadon it had once faded so introspectively to...]
I walked on by and passing a barricaded lot, I peeked through a crack and find again a wasteland wilderness, a dejected desert - where a new structure has not yet sprouted up, where a community garden has not been measured out, where squatters have not gamely tented on... and where the inviolate red doors may still open up and lead towards the ever receding barren mysteries of les solitaires pauvres...