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It seemed there was something in the concrete after all. The sidewalk blocks did carry whispers from one door to another, and the doors were always happy to share.

The humidity may have had something to do with it. Or the disasters. Or the boredom. Everyone knew every thing there was to know. When you can't do anything else, you pay attention.

Also each person spoke as the indistinguishable omniscient. The form above the forms, always filling out the form. The form was so filled out that the narrator hesitated to speak. Statements bore holes in concrete if you let them.

Aphorisms poured forth from every follicle. Being was more of a hairy dog than it had been before. Comparisons bring forth repetition. Repetition inspires anger. Series connect to windows to crash a few birds against glass.

Winter was all the time. It was so hot that the sidewalk threatened to shimmer at midnight. Winter is more of a state of mind these days. The weather prefers not to be called that anymore. Call it archaeology.

Depend on strings of text. That's what the door several doors down insists. It just wants to be red.

Do you remember figs? Do you remember cars? Do you remember when the street was more of a street than a cable?

Someone was whispering about fault yesterday. Causes became unhinged from effects all those pours ago. Now we've poured so much concrete that the ocean can only evaporate to that ceiling down there and drip immediately back down. What is a planet without water?

Mercurial vibrations threaten to liquify our solids. You have something to say. You have something to say. You had something to say.