They're on the rooftop garden, sketching. Paths made of loose stones coil through the grass and overhanging plants. Blanket flowers burst from the greenness in pinwheels of red, orange, and yellow.
The art installation is a pile of boots, basically. It's a work of calculated indifference.
A young man on the subway recites his own poetry. It's clumsy, in parts, but earnest. He speaks it with sincere intent and force of thought.
To reach the porch of the pink house, you would walk on a path of uneven paving stones, past flowering bushes, under a trellis, and between two tables covered in a cloth patterned with sunflowers.
The children are arrayed before their parents to dutifully sing.
The neighborhood is a mix of quaint shops, charming cafes, industrial barrenness, churches, and patches of greenery.
When the weeds are cleared away from the container, what's left is a lone pepper.