There was a city coated in ozone and tears, masked with wave-length upon wave-width of streetlight memories beginning in the summery halls of August. The pine and black-sapped fir trees were far apart, dwelt on the edges of a bird-man’s sanity, beholden to the nobodies who walked its parks. All of these flighty nuances described it.
This city could not tell you, in exact words, the weather of its roads or the taste of its liqueur. It could not define discount from discourse, would not open at ends to meet you or meet your brethren. It was all the structures and fantasy musings, but nothing else.
On the corner of a street, five boys meet to make strange. They ride their bikes around each other, circling the blankness on each others faces, wondering when someone will say those words. Hanging on the air in suspense is reality; homework, school, the street sign, the ozone, the city; in all of these, there were words that had to be spoken, but nobody was saying them. They are not old souls, do not want to be, subjected to a love of academia. They do not have rules or guidelines for fifteen, and they shouldn’t.
The boys continue to circle the concrete with BMX smiles and mountain spines. There is a city coated in ozone and tears, masked with wave-length upon wave-width of words and phrases. It sounded a little like,
“Tell your friends to back off.”