There’s a girl on the radio. She’s saying things: Dangerous things. I’d like to believe her, but I’ve seen enough in my life for me to know its a pipe dream. Kanterbury’s lights aren’t dimming; they’re getting brighter. With each murder, each rape, each muffled scream. They drown out the rain soaked neon streets and cover the loud punk music that is heard all night. People have hope nowadays. They think something better is coming. We’ll be better off when these broadcasts stop. Then we can get back to cleaning this city up by ourselves. Or at least washing away the blood from our streets.