do you remember the first time you smelled the hot steam of old roads rise, asphalt, dirt, grit, the aroma of tires grinding into the afternoon heat? do you remember the stains, the stenciled markings of others, these declarations of ownership, of pride, of failure? do you remember what is was like to walk along the streets, under the din of sun glinting off hoods and brick? its in these streets we find the wild things, some say, others chuckle at the flap of fat wings in the still air; the feathered mottled mess of beasts. birds care not for the power of walls.
