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I trace the stacked voices of shouters how they immingle fraternally on first hearing with the vaporous nick of taxis gold-rushing the avenue as if they were part of the same equation (or miscalculation) yet ruminantly fugitive one or the other sound falls back to tundra distances creating double-choice (like the way air can be seen to palm through a good photograph despite being locked into the essential stillness) the street nerved with intended pitch and the aheadedness of sound being raked into a kind of sonic theatre after leaving the ear (or appearing to leave) where it encores thread-frail yet able enough to jet the mind for a second or more undeserted in the half-silence as if nervously retouched to the shock of it