Between the stitches of pavement something resembling a city grows up around us, timeless and with time less to take stock of us. No moloch yet but you snapped another pen for the sake of feeling something and got ink all over your fingers, the cheap kind of Bic black that looks like pigeon feathers, iridescent greyvioletgreen bleeding your cuticles and spiderwebbed palms. Good luck reading the future in that mess. The city doesn’t have time for those jagged plastic bones, all twenty-seven of them exquisitely formed. There’s municipal planning to take care of– music in the parks, bus routes. Priorities.