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Those rhythmic words came from the Unicorns' frontman, in a moment of clarity for me. What can I say, I love Atlanta. The drummer thumped his hand under his shirt to the beat of his bass drum. The short couple in front of me gave each other the thumbs-up as the tall couple unblocked their view, and I heard the words "kick in the groin." The red lipsticked woman behind me kept her eyes closed and murmured as her boyfriend stroked her arm. Chelsea smoked a cigarette. I shifted my weight from right to left. The blonde beside me remarked that "actually, the people in Martyville are kind of lame." Her suitor swore that his memory is photographic and asked for her number.

I am here, where I grew up. Where people smile in the streets for no reason. Tomorrow, during the lunch hour, the man in the wheelchair on Broad St. will talk to passersby, then return to his harmonica. Someone will forget her bus token, and three people will fish for quarters. Free refills will be given out in abundance. Ah, America.