Jet.
The feel of steel on steel. The wheel on hot asphalt. The dodging of crowded sidewalks and gridlocked streets. The wind in your face. The smell of the heat.
Set.
The city is alive. The concrete jungle is breathing and I, it’s keeper. It doesn’t sleep. It is all consuming and many have fallen into the mouth of the Bay. I’ve seen it dance. I’ve seen it laugh.
Radio.
The heartbeat of the people. The song of the underground. The beat that keeps the world in toe with everything around it. It pumps the blood through my veins. It keeps the police at length and the paint wet on the streets.
