Saturday, June 25, 2011


They are fifteen, maybe sixteen, surely not seventeen. The four boys flanking me on both sides of the streetcar, the two Caucasians sporting nifty glasses, the two Chinese strapping knapsacks on their backs. Foreheads riddled with red spots. Voices crossing the rickety bridge back and forth from boy to man.
"So you're saying each pixel is made up of a million parts?" says one.
"I'm talking about invisibility," says another.
"You can't draw what you can't see," says another.
"I want to figure this out," says another, then laughs.
They probably masturbate often. They probably are unaware that girls in their classes find them charming. They probably will do good with their lives. I want to tell them, "Keep it up."

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