Outside, kids in colorful jerseys pick up the cones when it gets dark. They walk in a single file, run in a single file, all, treading the air lightly. There’s still dew on the grass. Tired faces recline on the glass inside, eyes inadvertently stuck on faces out of glossy sheets. Happy faces, inquisitive faces, a-minute solutions and wide grins. Floating heads droop like 1 hunchback curled with a book. There is no other way to read. Flashlights split the streets and blurring shadows cut their opaque glow for miles and miles ahead. A world glides by like a muted babble; words set to fall in a fragmentary stillness. 1 face looks up, sees the handles dangling from one side to the other. Metal rods shine and clink at the brush of 1 hand. During nights, when it’s empty, you can gape inside the cavernous host, shifting a block a moment and back. Bobbing faces, dodgy feet, strangers are we all but the same? Flat, dark clouds underline a hunger. 1 speaks: “There’s life out there in the streets.” 1 head drops to the other side, eyes searching. ”There’s life out there under the skies.” There is life out there, you say. There is no out there.