Markings

 

Walking around the city - it's hard to figure out how some of the graffiti gets made.  Maybe some long limbed, intrepid extraterrestrials work in the dead of night making urban art that couldn't be created by mere homospaiens. 

And when I was a good little Roman Catholic altar boying, speaking in Latin and giving up chocolate milk for Lent - we got a smushed thumb print on Ash Wednesday - not a fat, black cross.  The people on the street today looked like they were in some Stephen King cult classic who shared unimaginable secrets and desires to eat me and Alisha, the tasty looking petite waitress rather than the cheeseburger deluxe I was devouring.