The Anchors of the Avenue
The concrete doesn’t float; it’s held down by iron wills.
A thousand passing faces, but only a few become the architecture of the block.
The shopkeeper who knows your name before you speak.
The elder on the corner bench whose gaze is a map of sixty years.
They are the gravity.
When the city spins too fast, you look to the anchors to know you’re still grounded.
