Gardens brighten the day, as do messages written in chalk on streets. Bees give me pause. “Hello friend,” I say to one I admire. So, too, with mushrooms, dandelions, wild strawberries. Off the streets, behind the doors of homes, live others. The facade of each home serves as an emblem of the one or many private, undisclosed storylines within. All of them parallel worlds. Other people’s games. And sometimes we meet, we intersect. We enter each other’s discourse. Communication happens intermittently, both frequently and rarely. We produce a kind of mail art, signaling to each other as if across mountaintops with mirrors, and discuss redesign of the neoliberal world order, made happy by each other’s laughter.