Across the street, it is late at night, pale yellow window canvases stretch and sea creatures trace the shadows. This is the alley where you are afraid. Everything is underwater, yet ordinary, as if dreams had made a movie and played it in your mind. Something about stale bread & soda cans, where ladders teeter over the abyss and doors remain without handles. This is called a dead end. It never lived & it never will. But you look at the vellum windows in hopes to see a human face or some writing that confirms your life. In the crevice of architecture, waiting for some kind of dawn or the arrival of a friend. But no such clarity is possible, so you inscribe something on the ground, so you write something.