We think of the park as a place of recreation… it is, for some. The city expands, spreads, mars, the quiet and solitude with the unearthly scream of engines and howl of steel. It is omnipresent, everywhere, and we cannot escape. A field, like a meadow, is soft, gentle. It seems silly to expect it as such in the City.

Vibrancy and life create feeling and welcome… life here is the cigarette butt underneath the bike tire. The forlorn clothes and the CVS bag under the drainage pipe. Hiding, from what you ask? The haunting, prowling City. The urban life and vibrancy. A squeal of a car, defiling the grass. How disrespectful. Degenerative sound. It isn’t wanted here.

Others seek and call this home. Why? The City. Escape from its qualms and dramas and illustrious fates. A poor escape. Nonetheless it is a house for those who can’t afford it. What? The City.

It is Me. You. People. It. You know what. Why is it here. Peace and quiet and solitude and tranquility do not need it.

Because it is fake. An oasis in a shiny desert. Crumbling from within. Why bother. Parking lots are needed, suitable. Maybe to stop the cars but for a little while. Perhaps it will come time for a Legend. No, that’s fake too. But it needs it. What?