What lies on that fair path which exists only behind your eyeballs, members? Street cleaners on kick the can vendettas? A mob a zombie beauty queens enjoying a shoe sale? Maybe structures made of cream cheese, so large they are visible from outer space. Yes, putting the street in your mind into words cheapens its murky depths, no doubt. But this week, despite that nutty Wittgenstein, is a good time to articulate the inarticulable before your unconscious gerrymands the entire district.