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.