The streets are humming,
The sounds of the city blasting through the curtains.
The asphalt makes its own kind of racket, well into the night,
howling like some kind of living thing.
Its thoughts are gritty and simple,
Running rampant in the veins of its children.
We are the streets;
We live here, we play here.
We die here.
There's nothin left to save us.
The air in the city is different,
Thick with smoke and weighted with
hairspray,
the neon lights from the liquor store,
and the long, low humming of the asphalt
below our feet.

::mina::