It is a blue lens day, me smiling like a ragged dog, the avenue all pitchforks of light, people pushed by music. They are walk-aways, and bits of stamped metals dropped in my open guitar case. In a place like this, Rothko, a meal is many opened palms. Casual decisions dropped like angels’ boons. The streets all emptying out instinct—too tired for decisions; the quick notice of bodies moving midday. Today it is an alleyway for sleep, tired fill in a sleeping bag with my guitar tied to me. Tomorrow is an explosion slowly growing on sidewalks and plazas—more performers than there was ever money. Tomorrow is raucous dreams, arms wrapped around my companion, afraid that anything should happen to her or I’d be a beggar. Tomorrow night is motioning toward, and a sensor light tripped on some doorway in an alley, just trying to sleep past the furor of tiny sounds—rat scratches above car horns. Tonight is a kind light barely illuminating side-stairs and platforms. A closed society, out there, where colors of notes are tones, and the word ‘WELCOME’ is only a doormat. An emptied guitar case buys a few liters of orange Fanta and not much else. These are the dreams behind blue sunglasses.