On a steep incline the houses seem to pour down the earth. Then they repeat again, from decline to peak; my bicycle takes me round and round and round. The sensation of sliding, as if to some inevitable conclusion.

It’s a death trap. Damn druggies, breaking the lock to count a pile of quarters they ripped off from the laundromat. The landlord will probably never fix this door.

We woke to the explosions and jumped on our bikes. Many of us were armed with nothing more than cardboard tubes, and rubber bands and paper clip ammo wiggled to mean barbs like our hearts.