Do the paths wander, peripatetic, as the people do? Do their feet ramble, as these words do, off course, moving the path with the wandering of their minds? Does the line seek ever greener grass, to make it grey? If we could see time, would the paths snake over the landscape, wriggling their way through our city, worming their way down to its very core? Perhaps we find the core at the surface, in these squiggling lines as they unravel themselves, tracing something as inconcrete as motion, and bringing it to life – the absence of grass every bit as alive as the green blades.