There is a place I've decided to come to. A place not too far from where I live, where the fountain waters try to reach the sky, and sounds of waste in the gutter run free. A distant truck passes. Lightning gleams pink behind the now-departing clouds. No cops, no CCTV, no white lines. Just plain tar and shrubs planted evenly next to each other. No one wants to kill me here. No one wants my fire hydrant personality. I am neither thin, nor curvy. I am private. The wind makes the tips of the water pirouette.
Just as the last of my cigarette is inhaled, as if someone is watching, the fountains are turned off.