The streets are paved with desire, The skyscrapers replace a birdsong that cannot be heard over the city's morning hum. The misspelled billboard by the highway blocks the eastern sun as it shines through my window, rousing me slowly out of a dreamscape. Main Street is waking: the storefronts play music, the degenerates left over from last night stumble home in the half-light, and suits and ties bustle to and fro, not stopping against the streetlights, thinking they're too important to die. In the distance, a train bell rings and people clamor for a seat, rushing rushing, always rushing. And then, on the outskirts, here I stand. I am dressed lightly against the sun and I walk quickly from one venue to the other. I know the cracks of the pavement by name and the wind carries my books while the sun lights my way. Even in the city, I have found places to wander. My mother sees my exploration as futile but that futile curiosity gave me employment. I have traversed this metropolis with nothing but my dreams; I have searched these streets for something others only dream of finding. I have been a morning wanderer and I have been an evening commuter, wrapped up in pain and pleasure and too lost to see where I'm going. I am grateful to have found my way.
The sunrise is over, the colors are gone, and I wake.
