It’s a cool, brisk, Friday evening. You can feel the wind hit your face and make you tear up as you walk along the colorful, energetic streets that highlight your every step of the way and illuminate your footsteps. Just along Division Street, you can feel the cars zooming by the street and making your ears feel numb. You can hear the cries and laughs of children playing in the playgrounds, and the sounds of children running and falling to the ground and scraping their knees. You can hear the cries and shouts of worried parents calling out for the children, and the sound of smooth cotton jackets hugging their mothers and fathers with smiles as big as the moon which has yet to come. You can hear the glass bottles clanking and the men and women laughing and shouting “Salud!” which means “good health” in Spanish. The happiness in the night can be heard from the heart of downtown, and it truly makes up the heartbeat of the town that is Chicago.

[This poem is in response to "My Generation" by Shreyber]

I think that there are a few of us
Who still worship the sun
And some who worship 
The glorious pastel smile of the dusk
With more fervent devotion
Than the leaf peepers 
Who travel thousands of miles
Each autumn
To see the leaves turn,
A final fireworks
Before the night and sleep of winter.
They come thousands of miles
To see change, ebullient change.
Those of of us who still worship the sun 
And the dusk,
We revere the neon tears of the sun.
We cry, but we know that after the winter and mud
Comes spring 
And maple syrup
After the night and the morning
Comes dawn
And then who knows what?

I think we all have the power to remember
What Dorothy sang about tumbling raindrops
And rainbow highways from heaven

Despite the cynicism and nihilism