I giggle at graffiti.
The seemingly never-ending freight cars that greet me as I wait for my Metra into the city have quick tags, try-hard “artist” renderings of Pac-Man and the occasional “Fuck, I’m drunkkk.”
As I get closer to the city, “Society is fucked!” screams from a dented shed in red paint in scrawl similar to what is found in my reporter’s notebooks.
It’s funny to me, people using aerosol cans of paint to be heard. Not funny in the sense that it is stupid, just in the sense that they have just not nailed it yet.
They expect the can to cry out in protest, in rebellion, to whatever wrongs they feel, but all it is doing is releasing a quiet “whizzz” of air.
A sigh. We have a long way to go.