Slush on the streets and telephone poles. Easy to forget sometimes, that people still use land-lines, that it's not all cell towers and wireless signal. "Who's going to save my soul now?" In the old days, people stood on street corners and espoused religions. Now they ask who's coming to save them. Ask them for pamphlets and they ask you if you've got anything to show them. Earnestly—not a come on, no eyebrows arched in the direction of the nearest alleyway. "There's nothing left to peddle," say the drug dealers while they ask passers-by for any gum or pain-killers that happen to jostle to and fro in their pockets and purses. "I'll do your taxes for you," calls one of them, one of the old dealers, trying to fill up a basketball with a bicycle pump up until a car swings by and splashes him with brown snow and muck. What was the name of that guy who was supposed to come save us? "You talking about Ted? I think he's got a blog these days."