I am a street. Long and eventful. Small green fingers reach through my cracks toward the bright halo sun. They root under my thin asphalt mask and deep into my skin of matted soil. I didn’t ask to be a street. I never would have wanted this tacking of rock to suffocate the earth. But, I forgive myself. Because I’m an answer to a question never asked. Life is finding out what to ask that’s befitting of your answer. Life is framing questions you already know the answers to, but don’t know how to express until the framing is perfect. Why the fuck am I a street? How do I make it worth it? Even though I hate asphalt?