Near South and Broad there is a wall of Mural Arts causation. A lion's face, a drill, a clock, a scroll of divination. The I Ching runs behind a wheel and passersby can reach and spin to let the future unconceal the best way for them to begin. We stop, we read, we make our bets about which guidance we'll each get. I spin it thrice, and, at the mark, I hit the night, the hat, the dark.
Come learn about economics, gender norms, and microphonics, books, zines, wires, and anarchy. Not questionable, Iffy. Call whomever, share the glee, their payphone says, laconically, projecting generosity: "Donations only. All calls free."
Sun-sprinkled scintillant speckles strewn astride a shining grin. Dazzling dancing diaphanous freckles dot your delicate dappled skin. Laughing eyes behind dark glasses gaze at me uncertainly and curiously try to assess what it is that my eyes see.
I see the sunlight singing songs of praise. It shines signs on your face, "Good morning. Happy Birthday."
My cat's a little dummy, brain squishy like a gummy. He's got a fluffy tummy, but his hearing's pretty crummy. Half way up the staircase, he calls out loud to locate me. So I walk over to see the cause of his crying plea. When I say his name, he looks the wrong way and sees no one at the top and thinks he just can't see me. Then I call him again, and he swings his head around, sees me standing on the landing nearer to the ground, looks back up and then back down again until his eyes recognize my visage which he notes with some surprise. His face lights up, "Oh, hey! You're there! How'd you get past me on the stairs? I heard you up, but now you're down. I guess my senses turned around!" I say "I know, there's no brain there. Your head is filled with fluff and air. It makes you super sweet and true. It's ok though, I love you too."
A park to the north is just one tree and shrubs, a quiet side alley away from the clubs where people can sit with Italian subs defending the street from stone polarbear cubs.