Days since I spoke, muted trees. Patches of light on my skin. The sun's echoes. I hide in parks, or kill time in shopping aisles. All the good people here. Moved along. Fixing at someone else's address. Wet hair at tram stops. An idea you had for harnessing the air. I forget how it was supposed to work. And your name? No use denying it. That was mine, once. We never did agree on the time or place for such serious discussions. Just wanted to be left alone. Well, here I am, happily. The tyre-treads of hope have left their marks on the road of my bitumen face.