He died in the most badass and tragic way. He did a lot of grafitti, you know what I mean? Huge, badass murals all over the place. Normally he’d do them really late at night and he’d come wake you up at six in the morning and you’d have to bike over to wherever he’d worked the whole night before. It was really annoying but you’d forgive him because he’d have this huge, happy smile on his face. And it was worth it. Beautiful colours, weird shapes, funny words all sewn together on some wall in the middle of town. For some reason art is always more beautiful amongst ugliness. Totally fucking wasted in museums.
It was dawn when it happened. It was his stupid fault. He had his earphones in. Fucking idiot. A train came and he never even heard it. If he didn’t have his ears in, he would have moved. Instead, it was done, just like that.
I feel spilt up. Half of me thinks if he had to go, at least he went doing what he loved best. But then one morning in the middle of work after I’d been up all night thinking, I thought about how much it would have hurt to go like that. Sure, it was short, but it must have really hurt. I lost my shit, snot everywhere, and my boss at the deli counter let me leave early even though I never told him what happened.
Maybe he knew. It’s funny how word spreads when a kid dies.
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