Photo by Lizzy Silverstein
"Mischief, mischief about" called the graffiti shrouded woman as the biker passed.
And there was, as always.
Mischief, corruption, and the like chosen to be disregarded by lofty-minded fools sitting in proper bars.
The rider continued eluded by new sights, heat, and traffic.
Meanwhile tattoo parlors punctured victims in shroud-less windows and smokers idly embodied life’s burdens with single exhales.
The swanky coffee bar called, Toddy’s poured, arrogant assholes believing they were something gossiped about politics they knew nothing about.
Appeased by the counterfeit romanticism the rider thought, “I must return.”
"Water?" cried the homeless man from the sizzling road. The traveler lent him but a gulp.
"Poor fool" the itinerant heard the graffiti say, though miles behind, still left attending the desolate wall.
Disillusioned, sweat accumulated beneath the biker’s breast and stink and salt met the nose.
But she felt nothing.
-Lizzy Silverstein '14
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