Streets are meant to be 
                                   roamed, filled with echoes 
                                   of footsteps and mirth—the 
                                   erratic choreography of 
                                   impromptu lives. 

                                   Noiseless streets are 
                                   hollow corridors, buildings 
                                   standing mute, shrouded
                                   windows reflecting an
                                   intended void of indifferent
                                   spaces.

                                                             But streets remember the 
                                                             weight of laughter, sunlight 
                                                             on old brick, the tender 
                                                             scraps of hope—refusing to 
                                                             be banished by silence or 
                                                             shadow.

                                     In stillness, the streets 
                                     have no pulse.