It's a drab gray street with little to see except for a parking garage and the neon-lit windows of an XXX shop. Expecting to soon put it behind me, I hear someone call out, and there they are, people who haven't been around in months. They've materialized across the street at the bus stop with their child.
Sometimes at the end of a sluggish day, all the inspiration and energy that had stirred quietly beneath the surface will burst out like vines flowering in a bog.
There will always be someone sitting alone on the grass talking to himself in the midst of other people.
A thundercloud looms over the city, delivering empty threats all afternoon. We walk undisturbed.
We feed off each other's enthusiasm.
The fountain at Fitler Square is fenced off. It plashes with an aloof complacency at people who try to send their arms through the bars to touch the water.
Old brick homes with fanlights above the doors give way to derelict shops and cold glassy skyscrapers.