Click, the tapping of heels on hot concrete. Chit, the chattering of crowds at a red lit crosswalk. Beep, the honking of an expensive car driving just a little too fast, not too too fast but fast enough to warrant a reaction from gawkers.   Tap, the clicking of shoes of those who saw that the crosswalk was safe to travel without the little green man telling us so. That little green man knows nothing of schedules. Stupid little green man.  Whistle, the wind between skyscrapers simulating what my ancestors would’ve heard in the mountains, most likely to be prayed to.  Then.  A roof top, an endless roof top.