The black night, our hands cool and slimy, sometimes between the buildings a moon, sometimes the silhouettes of a couple of friendly musicians with their own bucket, their own stack. We had strict etiquette, you made room for everyone else, you never pasted over an event that hadn’t been yet, you didn’t obscure, you didn’t hide.
Until a stripclub opened in the centre of town and started putting up posters of a women on a chain, on all fours, alluringly in lingerie, alluringly in pain. Something silent about her. Something silenced in us. Those were fair game.