Walk here at night, rose from the ashes, in the backstreets you hear yourself breathe. The black velvet laps at buildings watching and listening, pools soft edged under mercury light. Walk hear. How can it be, better not ask, this feeling of hope and freedom, a timber yard, liquor store, small factories fronting people’s houses, life carrying on behind. Potted plants and goldfish tanks, a five way intersection, distended expanse of asphalt. It’s an arrogance this ink carpet, yet organic. If it were a field it would not come as it did from the people, and they made this.