A city writes its history in the dirt. As occupants we are all fortunate scribes with daily-ways like dusty-lines. Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys. Traverse the urban waterways to find that sense of place in the jungle metropolis. capital of texas…bee caves road…kids eat free…odds and ends…my 9 month pregnant wife visited this location several weeks ago… And everything is dying. Everything is ending. But the dead keep us alive, kick us awake, tickle our feet as we walk over their graves. The city is breathing both ways: in and out daily, along and back the major and minor rush-hour arteries; then from the core to the fringe over generations. Birth and death lie along the extension or retraction of each respiration. reverb(eration) is decay: the speed and distance at which austin (and all its tangled threads of sound and light and sewer and industry and and lore and government jurisdiction) fades to silence, to imperceptibility—the pregnant point at which the echo (the re- in reverb) begins. Seething city, you break down and build up within spitting distance—hip to your own demise, you bear witness to the futile beauty in our attempts to reclaim, rebuild, remain. Will we hear the end? An end of spirit? Of music? Of the green? Of the weird?

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