Walking home last night, with the eastern sky beginning to lighten from black to cobalt in strips between the towering skyscrapers of Brickell, I stumbled across several pockets of my neighborhood that I’d never seen before. Much of city life involves simplifying an area to points of personal interest, and in the rush of living we often forget that the blank spaces between them contain more than what we might see as they blur past our car windows.

I found myself at one point in an empty lot that nature was in the process of reclaiming. It seemed as if a tide of green had begun to flow across it, obscuring the gravel and earth and turning it into a field. In one corner sat a ruinous VW Bug, rusted and gutted, and in the darkness it seemed almost magical, an unlikely relic to entropy and nostalgia in a city that is violently throwing itself into the future.

I ventured back this afternoon as the sunlight grew syrupy and golden, slanting in obliquely from the setting sun, and found that same break in the wire fence.

I padded about the car, snapping off a few pictures, and surprised a black cat reclining within, sprawled out on the black futon that had been forced into the VW’s shell. It stared at me in surprise, affronted that I should disturb its repose in this melancholy palace of rust and ferns, and then scooted away into the undergrowth and disappeared into the shadows.