He doesn’t know what he needs, but figures he’ll find it dried between the city’s teeth.
The buildings are high enough to make him dizzy, the neon and flash bulbs soaking through his skin, refracting out the other side and this place is not familiar. It’s too fast, the place where he’s from is slow like a scab. Like watching paint dry. So slow that nothing but trouble ever happens, so slow that people work their whole lives for a way out or into a hole in the ground they were born on.
But tonight he’s rickety and switchblade sharp, all ratty boots and white shirt, rolled jeans, drastically underdressed and already warm from a few too many drinks. A yellow cab rolls up to the red light beside him and he tries not to hate the people inside of it, follows the scent of the salt, looking for the sea; port cities usually get more interesting around the river. The buildings get shabbier and his walk cools down to a stroll.
Just another awful boy looking for answers in all the wrong places.
(Watercolor, gouache, ink, 8x10)