The street singer writes his letters to a crowd defened by the machinery of night. Those who pass want to stop and sway but lack the courage to abandon their substance for the shadow. So they walk on, leaving washed up footprints on the sidewalk like waves trying to escape the sea. Does the city sing? and when they hear the music does it make the lines in their body curve. Yes? no. Have they mistaken the burning tip of my cigarette for the stars. How long has it been since they ran their fingers over wet paint, instead of watching it dry.