The summer. You drive down the artery in the old quarter, flanked by endless t-shirts, looking up at the clouds closing over the evening light. The sky can easily be divided in two, in gold and grey, and the wind that precedes the storm begins to blow the dirt of the street and the buds off the flowering trees into your eyes. When the wind blows like it does, it seems like the noises of the street are rushing into you: The horns are thrown at you, around you, and the broken conversations dart past your head as if blown from one of the long bamboo poles that dance on the shoulders over the backbones of the city. The sound is more appropriate this way: it travels the way you do, and it interrupts the way life does here. It intrudes.