We live in a strange little corner of the city, where two different roads terminate in a feral corner at the edge of an industrial zone. The space around that corner is a wall of green, the vegetation at summer’s end so thick that it covers the fences that wall off the empty lots behind the factories, then emerges in bulbous gnarls of poison ivy, skin-puncturing agave and spiny mesquite that swallow the detritus that accumulates in such a spot. At night, even under the weird light of this week’s waning gibbous moon, the woods and fields on the other side of those fences are inky dark. What street lamps there are don’t really reach our little corner, and it has always been a popular place for lovers to park, turn the lights off, and feel enough privacy to be intimate on a public street. If you were on foot, and didn't really know where you were, this zone would probably scare you. And if you were driving home late at night, and missed your turn, you might be one of those people it captures.