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About Chicago

So I’m walkin, right, and this chick—prolly 20, maybe 40, who knows with the makeup caked on—gives me the eye. I’m like, “Honey, I ain’t buyin what you’re sellin less I know the deal.” She smirks, all sassy, and I’m thinkin, *damn, this is some real-life cinema*. Godard’s voice in my head: “The image is a prison.” Ain’t that the truth? She’s trapped, I’m trapped, we’re all stuck starin at each other like idiots. I ask her name—Crystal, she says. Yeah, sure, “Crystal”—prolly Susan from Ohio, but whatever, I roll with it.

Chapter 7:

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The Menominee River winds like a slick silver ribbon—totally reminds me of that scene in Tabu, like “O, silence, the voice of the seas” (or somethin’ like that, my favorite movie lines that just stick, y’know). I hate to break it to ya, but these waters tell stories if ya listen close. And there’s an odd little park near Millers Lane where kids play and folks find peace. I remember one time, I sat there and watched a couple argue over picnic spots, then mend their hearts right away—demonstratin’ the true beat of community.

Resolution to end longstanding Marinette County agreement postponed in committee