Chew chew crunch. A street of down and drowse. I took it up to walk it and back, but never was that a good idea. The lights bounced back and forth like a yoyo. Men with hair and glittering lights. Black car parked aside and a willow tree that took me into its arms and made me cry, inside. There was no kind of tears that I could juice from my eyes – a dry throat and hard emotionless feelings electrocuted its branches as I clutch with little strength. A boy-man in crumbling clothes walks up and down following my rhythm. I hate him. Boots; 10 pairs of black boots circle my vision pointing down like a pie chart. I feel winded and they’re of all sizes short fat flumpy chubby thin built lean, in costumes. The traffic light beeps; a hollow sound pierces my ears, I taste infant poop or off buttermilk, crawling down my neck and settling onto my collar. The boots turned and then turned back; police looked on, too many questions, and then it was: ” into the car”. No resentment. A sound; cars jumping off bumps; as if a game of RoadWolves, but the street wasn’t colourful. Black, yellow and a grey-purple sky. I could’ve been dead that night, but I got another chance, and another and another, from the Most Merciful. Pictures of a cup full of thick juice and arms, garlic breath – police smelt like work and annoyment. They spread their legs and stretched for moments, the clock ticked. I needed to sit, so I slouched into a corner. Sweat cooling me off, and the darkness rushing into every gap available. A ute driving back and forth, cars with their eyes glowing like a Chinese anime with girls starry eyes. Trees were asleep as well except for the willow, which I hugged tight. However that day has gone, that street is still there, maybe the people too, but the windows and the lights will always be there, chock-full of stories, and sights. A dead place that comes alive only at 12 midnight. Boys drinking smoothies and garlic. You can’t judge a place though, when parks are central and rivalry erupts – a patrol comes; baby snake learning to slither. They have the right to get suspicious of people. Let alone a barefoot burnt apple cake running down a sandy pathway –something isn’t right and that’s why they do their job, good on them. They can do that, and I’ll stay here and do mine. Don’t pull Crumble into a street – empty street- saying you’re saving him from getting pushed into a car. Crumble likes you to be clear with him.