SuberbiaThe noise, in moderation, never stops.As far as you can go on foot, the empty eyes of houses, washed out by the sun, play host to the pleasant war that is waged across the sun-dappled concrete, and the grass that would rather itself be dead, but is held to the earth by sprinklers.I sit on a box as I watch the soldiers of tomorrow play. Their play is a war of its own. It's a simulation. I never liked that game, and I wish they would do something else while they can still afford to. There's so much else to do, but we forget for fear that if we remember, we might forgo the fight.I'm tired. The noise, in moderation, never stops.