All alone in a box on a street where a shoe hangs silently from a street sign. It’s some version of Franklin’s Tower minus all the chords and the refrain. It’s a little dance that’s done in the early hours of every day. It’s a dance performed by the aging and the young. It’s a dance that doesn’t have an end and a dance that doesn’t have a partner. It’s a quick exchange in the bus stop and a hustle for one that leaves the other filling up buckets and showering trash into the curb. This isn’t some nine to five gig with a lunch break and some posters on the wall about burnout. This is every city everywhere and an underbelly that doesn’t quite fit the shirt. It’s not tailored and it makes most vomit if they’re not too busy looking the other way. It’s a realness and a real mess and a landslide in an area that’s only ever been made of soil, except there’s more concrete here than one could ever find in a swimming pool or a skatepark in some small Wisconsin town along all but abandoned highway.