There is clarity in the stadiums; the rest is all panic.

Graffiti artists are hungry for bricks like the lowest men for bread and they consume them, destroy them with their iron teeth, dust flying from the corners of their lips. Bricks are as red as blood and it is brick lust that drives them on. To leave a brick bare is to die; because it is a desert of bricks out there and they are infinite like grains of sand, or snowflakes- no two bricks are alike, at least not when we're done with them.

To name something is to own it.

This city is built with bricks and we name the bricks to own the city- masters, warriors, thieves and kings. Our work is not art. It does not need to be beautiful because it has a purpose. These dripping letters are our crowns, we kings, they make us strong and red and alive on the buildings and the boxes at the railways.

Sometimes we bestow favors upon our subjects, as every good monarch does.

Large bubble letters spell our hope for the passengers in the bellies of the trains to see, a burnt orange colour not of brick- we make an effort but there is no meaning in our words. There are no words that are love or hope. On the bricks words are just jigsaw puzzled letters.

There is clarity in the stadiums.

I saw her in a stadium of sorts; a high window and a guard; angry and shrill. Her face dark like the sketch book- black storm cloud scribbles, old english letters. Her face said I can't, this is too hard, this is too sad, too scary, this is just a dream, not even mine and I was Romeo. I was Audrey Hepburn in the rain.

I read poetry jigsaw puzzled words. I carry your heart I said, the uncut hair of graves. You- you are the best mind of my generation; your eyes are nothing like the sun- on a movie screen you are unreal. You are my North, my South, my East, my West. I carry your heart. She said they aren't even your words, this isn't even my dream.

When I see her next I will write my name on her arm. To name something is to own it.