This cone tells more of the story than we’re usually comfortable to admit. Found beaten up somewhere along the road, duck tape bandages stuck atop healed wounds as a trophy of sorts from days past. Still newly branded, standing on the lot at market and vine, pondering all the spaces striped for the rest of us markers.

It really is strange how we used to think of ourselves as protesters plagued with megaphonia. We’d hit the streets hard screaming at all within earshot. It’s no wonder they couldn’t hear what we were saying. Is there anything more hypocritical than a delusional instrument faking to be the musician?

Today though, we have to laugh a little. How could a cone, a mono-color bright orange cone no less, become so blindly prideful? We’re just stinking, dusty cones. We serve a purpose for sure. But let’s be honest, there are any number of things you can place to concrete to outline path lanes.

How’d we get so lucky?