Do you see through me? Am I just a momentary apparition; no cause, no effect? Or am I something more; is even my passing glance an expression of another world just as tangible as that whose goals you seem so enraptured in? New Orleans is big enough for there to be more than one. Maybe I’m not enough for you to want to know, but at least look. At least give a chance to form a memory outside of what must be, so there’s a possibility of what could be. We are all ghosts when we put on the shroud of transit, not living, when signposts become information to get from point A to B, not a way to contact he or she; are we really that bogged down by time to filter out existence in it’s prime, is it a crime to look past grime and see these aren’t blemishes, but the few marks of the past breaking through the night; we’re side by side. But no really. We’re crossing intersections without the courtesy of turn signals. Street lights are supposed to stave away sleep, but we’re too stuck in star fuzz to see past the dream of supposed to be certainty; we’re scared, or are we? Maybe just tired. A little bit of rest will do us good. We should be people watching, not people crossing. It’s time to treat this city as a porch on which we can take in those who make and do. There’s so much. Don’t take for granted that it’ll still happen if we keep turning a blind eye to worn out faces.