is characterized by the frantic strobing on-off-on-off-on which really does his head in, no doubt, while he wanders the corridors of the library, the grocery store, downtown. His head strobes on-off-on-off-on and gives homeless people seizures while he steps lightly down the grid of streets, all ways are one-ways but he's on foot and may, therefore, go against the traffic. He passes them as they spasm, grind their toes against the pavement through cardboard-soled shoes with duct tape over the heels, he walks on as the traffic lights become confused and cars shoot forward, all directioned, crash-bang-careen like bumper-cars more than real big-boy cars. Adult cars.
Unfortunately, time goes on like this, insipid emo child wandering-street-fiascos, grey sky and listless parking meters that sag at the joints and sob coins out onto the pavement. Pathetic fallacy: flaccid dicks for everyone. Eventually, bored with the relentless cycle of whining, suffering, insufferable shitty wank, Text abandons the city and this boy. Signs empty themselves at once. Serif, sans serif, boldfaced or italic. Text goes. Chalk menus listing upstart coffee prices erase themselves, backwards, leaving not even that distant smoky chalk trace. Street signs become flat expanses of green. People try to read the symbols without the words to go with them. They try to read landmarks. Pretty soon the city will unravel itself.
Text, meanwhile, holidays in Southern France, becoming the languid copy in some backpacker's beaten-up travel guide. He shoves it in his back pocket, stained as all hell and certainly Text could do without the smell, but it's not that bad besides and certainly he's a happy sort of person, smoking too much weed on occasion and prone to finding himself in awkward situations with the locals after a bottle too much wine but there's a relaxed, sexy quality to the awkwardness, like a girl's feet stuffed lustily into runners that she must keep hidden because they certainly don't go with the turquoise prom dress she's got on while she slow dances to Smells like Teens Spirit, however you slow dance to that. The sort of thing Text quite likes, as Text unwinds its vowels and lets it's y's hang down.