All I know is the charcoal of my hands: it covers them in such a way that makes me believe the charcoal stain has found its way underneath. I draw myself half a city, until no part of me remains. I then look, so sorrowfully, at the broken landscape. All its harsh edges beg for attention, but I have to ask myself where all the real people are. I look all around, but all I see is you and I, on a charcoal street—somewhere we always wanted to be—hand in hand, off to wander together and gather up all the other real people we meet.