Sing to me, O Muse, of whatever the hell it is that's supposed to matter to us nowadays. Sing to me of the twists and turns of streets and limbs. Sing to me of flesh and blood and oil and steel and glass and bone. Sing to me a buzzing, electric symphony of dissonance and uneasy resolution, and sing to me of the silence, of the negative spaces. Sing to me of the struggle; the balancing act; the fight and the surrender; the peace. Sing to me a drunken, incoherent rant from which practiced eyes avert, suddenly discovering fascinating patterns in sidewalk cracks.
