I lie here—broad and clear, white as an exclamation point the city has placed on its dark skin. The street below me is old, scarred by tires and rain, but I am younger, fresher, like a symbol that transports people from one kingdom to another. I am not just paint. I am border and promise, a gatekeeper of passage. From my flat body, I look up. There, beyond the rolling of tires and the rustle of hurried footsteps, is the sky—an impatient blue that reflects in puddles and is occasionally broken by storm. I know I am part of a larger pattern. Left and right, I feel the presence of my brothers and sisters, other lines, all equally rectangular and linear. Yet I don't fully experience their presence. I am myself, a single note in a chord that resonates through the city. And that makes me great.