Fred Aiken Writing

The humidity has grown unbearable, yet still I come out here each night. It’d be better if it were autumn, maybe the beginning of winter, but I don’t have much of a choice in the matter of the season. All I know is that I need to tag the walls with my aerosol signature. Each light looks like a cop’s siren speeding towards me. My right leg instinctively leans toward the closest escape route, which is hard to see with it so dark out at 3am. Maybe I don’t look as suspicious as I think I do, but that’s a lie.

I think of all the crimes I could be charged with, past and future. If I run, then I’ll definitely look suspicious. But I’m already suspicious. Damn.

The light passed by. Some Nissan driving at a random hour of night. Maybe they’re going to do the same thing I want to do. But probably not. I imagine everyone is just like me. I think I would hate them all.