In the old town: Sneakers hang from traffic lights as if to say they would have run if they could. If they weren't tethered to this place, and so paired their steps with the sound of airhorns. The sound of trains is the sound of sepia now -- the city turned monochrome. At least a handful I know claim it as their birthright. You can see the last peak highlight of a streak of young hair across its tracks as it stitched itself to the sun. It has reclaimed the light in an old flame's eyes. Maybe we fell in love because we stood before each other as far away, we saw places emanating somewhere in our reflections, but everything open has since sealed itself matte as flowers in wall-paper, stowed away in self-preservation - a garden as prescient as petals pressed between laminates. There is a landscape made in the color-schemes of us cordoned off and arranged just so, and I think a sound might do the same when it can no longer take us where we want to be, how it teams with