There is a screaming silence on the privatized public transportation of Cleveland. A scream in the hearts and minds of a people who live with less than zero. Car fires in the streets. Syringes next to the suburbs. Nowhere is holy in this great city, a veritable Gomorrah. It's not a jungle, it's a prison and a **** shame. Ohio is for abandonment; musicians, writers, astronauts, pilots. All desperate to leave a crater where they used to stand, to blast a hole in the heart of this state. A hole it already has. They make it less than zero. Plastering Chief Wahoo against their foreheads, houses, cars, lawns, chests, arms, bars, streets. Saying it's not racism, it's tradition. Meanwhile, everyone else is trying to explain that just because it's old doesn't mean it isn't racist to the idiots of Cleveland. Cleveland is a city made of stains, tarnish, rust and apathy. Erecting a chandelier instead of a dream, a monument to desperation. There is a scream in the back of the throat.