Maybe it's the spartan tree, or the odd lamp, or the dark window and all those shadows ... but this lovely and noticeably hip nocturnal setting on Mission Street reminded me of a rather bleak passage from Allen Ginsberg's Howl. Either I'm incredibly astute, or I need to get more sleep and stop staying up so late taking pictures.
"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz..."
Yeah, I know it's just a commercial building closed for the evening. Then again, poetry lurks in unexpected places.