Dribbles of babble

Under the bridge, too sleepy to take the long way around, but alert enough to be nervous about the uniformed feral kids who sometimes hang out between the pilings. The bridge is safe, but halfway down the lane a streetlight is out and shadows pool around the pretentious pillars in front of the new apartments. Flash of coat tails in the corner of your eye. Nothing. Shadow of backbrushed hair makes you jump. You pick up your pace, but she steps out in front of you just before the light starts again. “Try a little harder,” you think she whispers.

Juice

Every time I pass this particular wall in Montréal, there's a new muraille, or a jungle of graffiti obscuring what used to be a turgid example of the city's self-expression. I should find out if someone is documenting this more methodically, because they really should be. (I don't head this far east more than once every few years.) Anyway, on my latest visit, the following squeaky-clean offering appeared before me…

As we can see, the central figure is a posh prick from Outremont, sneering at the viewer and pouring milk on his breakfast of rainbow-tinted alien tentacles. Meanwhile the whole scene is spattered with gobs of phlegm from the disgusted common citizens on whose backs he lives his life of unearthly luxury. It'll be stratified under yet more paint before long, but if it is still there when you pass it, feel free to add your contemptuous spit to his face.