In rushing black tunnels where the metal worms glide through the sticky warm night. The thousands of hundreds on the platform, each going their separate ways. No one will pick up their heavy heads to see the world. We never see the world like the grey people all with their same grey shoes and grey looks on their faces. We see the world in music. The trees sing to us in a sweet serenade of power and resistance. The cats on the windowsills chant beauty and strength. But the people never see this hidden world underneath their apartments and racecars. They hear the noise but not the song.
-by Izzy