A house.

A green house upon a hill, hidden from downtown by tall bamboo Sprouts.

Lemon trees grow. Palm trees loom over in the dark ocean sky. The morning is nigh.

As the sun rises deeper into the blue ocean, lighting up the pavement, the moths surrounding the porch lights in the darkness flutter back to their hiding places as the light envelopes the Earth.

It is my que to wake up and join the bustle of the city.

I walk down my street, the engines of cars growl as they roll down the hill that I call home.

A loud murmur of the people fills the air. A mix of perfumes and smells lift off their skin as the people walk by.

I stop in front of an impasse. A place marked by symbols, telling me to stop. Wait.

The sign displays a fiery hand sitting in its orange glow, but in an instant, it turns into a Bright white man, walking, driven by an unknown goal.

Walking. Walking. Walking.

The people then wade across the asphalt river as the man fades into orange numbers, counting down ominously. I stare. 5. 4. 3. 2. and 1. The people hop onto the sidewalk, and the Fiery orange hand appears again.

I sigh and press the button, and the cycle starts again. Hand, Man, and then the countdown. I cross.

I now return home, with a cold treat in my hand, ready to sit and relax and unwind from the journey down my street.