Philadelphia stoops are as addicting as cocaine. With beautiful weather and the afternoon sun setting, I swear I must have died and gone to heaven. Heaven could very well be a set of steps accurately placed at the corner of Carlisle and Diamond. I wouldn’t be mad about that. You talk about concrete streets like it’s your job and I’ll write about concrete streets like it’s my blog.

Last night I was sitting outside when I heard a loud crash. An eerie cloud of dust and the result of metal against pavement rose from the earth and cluttered the sky above the road and below the street lights. What followed was a motorcycle skidding 50 yards down the street and the rush of onlookers to the scene of impact. Without warning this mans life could have been compromised as a sacrifice for the city? Is death something we can understand? Or maybe we can handle a broken leg, or the peeling of skin?

The style of my blogs must change a little bit; they became ridiculous and incoherent. I can’t say I blame the powers to be for being upset. So for all of you out there that religiously read my blog (Lauren, and maybe Sean) I apologize.

Have you ever heard a song that gives you rhythm to write? I write in perfect rhyme with a song in my head and on my speakers. This is where I lose all control of the wheel. Can you imagine a rusty bicycle with a missing spoke that can take you all over the world? Or maybe a strawberry tart with a black heart? I can and I believe it. The city holds many secrets that I refuse to give you. You must come here and find it out for yourself. Use the map from the dharma initiative and you will know where it is. I long to float on a river that runs the length of Broad and Market combined. I want it to drop me off at the Flying Monkey where I take that down to Penn’s landing and watch the cars drive by.

MAOILKWRUWESK