You could say I live near the upturned knuckle of a through street just north of the city center, off a major thoroughfare where the path of gathered rain from here to it would be labeled downwind, or that I live near an empty lot where an oak tree stood till the day it crushed the neighbor’s ranch-style house below, was then demolished and is now an empty foundation painted pale blue-gray, or that I live two blocks from train tracks whose south side marks the start of a narrow hiking trail/nature preserve, or four blocks from four gas stations in three blocks, framing in center a dry cleaner with a small gay bar on the building’s side, itself with a strip club on its side fully hidden from the half-dead-end—exit only halfway in—access road, all hid from a movie theater, flanked along its lot by a bank on a hill that changed its name three times in twenty years, itself opposite two buildings: one a former restaurant cum camera shop cum restaurant cum private pop-up administering vaccines now mostly concrete awning, the other a soon-to-be former restaurant, ninety degrees from a thrift store donation center OPENING SOON and having been so the last three years, two laundromats, two grocery stores, one supermercado, two bakeries—one Greek, a tire shop, a car wash on the corner, another diagonally across, a small Thai restaurant, a Greek restaurant which seems closed for weeks at a time, a two-floor, twelve unit apartment building in cream orange brick with thick cast iron stairs and thin railings, a Chinese family’s long-run fabric store—no pets allowed—next to a pet groomer whose building resembles the vet, an animal hospital that resembles a groomer, a garage that fixes mid-century European cars as long as European means German, a seller of fountains, craquelure vases, and outdoor sculpture (isn’t it all, eventually) of which some ageless Roman or Teutonic child, one toe to the base but otherwise tipped in varying states in flight, is a common theme, a pizzeria, a taqueria, public housing – the tallest building in the neighborhood, two doors down from a head shop, an Ethiopian restaurant, a community pharmacy next to a sex shop, two other sex shops next to one another, themselves next to, on one side, a Mediterranean restaurant so named because no one culture has more than two items, yielding a vague pointing towards a general but wide area involving three continents, and on the other side, an empty, dilapidated diner, itself next to an empty butter-colored brick facade, across from the automated car wash beside a furniture rental store in tinted glass, bookmarking the road with an empty furniture store, two antique shops which, like more shops of this kind, look more full each time one passes by, an old Greek barbershop floating near a corner, near seafood and mariscos and a nightclub very loosely resembling the Parthenon surrounded by barbed wire and a restaurant for pensioners pressed up to a two-floor motel with green doors which, at night, sometimes, beneath dim or flickering lights, are left slightly ajar. I would prefer to say that I live here with you.