This is not and will not be the last crisis. Pedestrians and vehicles, the opportunists and the miserable, have always coexisted in me. Few rise, many fall; one cycle ends and another begins. There’s no good fortune that lasts, nor wave of misfortune that doesn’t ebb. You may cry out in despair or cry for joy, or perhaps, like me, parcel out your good and bad luck. Leprosy or luster, I shed my skin again and change my signposts. Just as you would your hair and teeth. Sometimes we’re a dusty wasteland, others a lush green grove.