A red octagon. What was it again? ‘Slow down’? ‘Wrong way’? My foot hovered over the brake as I cautiously scanned the street for clues. Finally, my eyes landed on a freshly painted crosswalk right below the sign. ‘Stop.’ Of course, it was a STOP sign. Almost a year has gone by since the last written traffic sign was ripped off of Chestnut Avenue’s curb. Sure, it was an inclusive measure taken on by my State; to convert the once English-dominant road signs to universal pictographs nearly anyone could learn to decipher. But playing guessing games on my way to work was starting to get a bit old…and dangerous.