The light turns red, but the people move forward. Honking, not of cars, but of unnamed trumpets or tapping on stone. Cement. Unknown clouds – cigarettes or speech bubbles. Wheezes. There is no such thing as silence – it does not belong in street intersections, the veins of city youth-blood. Neither is “community” proven by the overabundance of I’s and me’s. I see potential in the sea of potential. Play the game right for five cents or ten (or none). Cement. Heavy boots or the poundings of stilettos, it’s all the same as the remnants of rain and other mimicry – paint dew drops on blue umbrellas in the lack of shade, hidden subliminal messages on the high tops of complexes (Zelda)… Unknown clouds of the intercontinental– Olibanus in the air external and Oud in my pocket. Here, I smell more sunlight than I feel in this three-way tie to the finish: Classy, gritty, and mediocre. Moving forward.