Boarders, breakers, bikers, ballers, brawlers, bleachers, beachers and stoics, their eyes fall soft and easy from the sunlight and the glare. There are ex-cons, short cons, gamers, marks and framers, an entire promenade divided equally between predator and prey. There are the drug-fueled dregs of Dogtown, Z-Town relics bronzed with muscle despite a pale lack of ambition. There are guitars and sitars, a lyric poem, a bonfire song. There is the S.M.P. and the P.O.P, the Ginger Court and Muscle Beach. There are Schwarzenegger and Morrison, airbrushed pictures of their heroes on the wall. There is chess and there are checkers, falling dominoes and rank patchouli. There are steel doors slamming harshly where only vampires dare to roam. They’re out here sleeping neath the cosmos, all but begging me to come along.