William Gibson’s famous adage from Neuromancer, “The street finds its own uses for things,” catalyzed a deep realization within my skull. That the street is not only an exciting, alluring, dangerously deterritorialized zone of possibilities, it is actually alive. A god, even—one that as I walk within, I am (a very, very small) part. From this assertion expounds many resonant theories, but for now I speak of its skin: street art as an organic form of ritual dialogue; communion, if you will, as the writing on the wall.

Homer Simpson in prayer: “Dear Lord, the gods have been good to me and I am thankful. For the first time in my life everything is absolutely perfect the way it is. So here’s the deal: you freeze everything as it is and I won’t ask for anything more. If that is OK, please give me absolutely no sign. [pause] OK, deal. In gratitude, I present you this offering of cookies and milk. If you want me to eat them for you, please give me no sign. [pause] Thy will be done. [eats food]. “