He would ride bikes to dead-end streets.
Bikes... under clandestine light.
He rarely looked up and when he did, nobody ever noticed.
Limited and suffocating space for him. He always made sure.
Hiding in chaos, safer when the air got dense.
My crazy neighbour with a torch on his head.
What is he doing? I don’t even think he knows himself.
Tyres and microwaves. Clutter that weighted so much, the human heart couldn’t handle any more beats.
But what if the world was wrapping up. And only the brave, the ones with aluminium masks and forts made out of rubber survived.
But what if we didn’t, but he knew?