They fool themselves into thinking they understand me. They
analyze me and tell me what's best for me. When I don't listen, they
treat me like somebody's mistake. They have endless ways of
explaining that I don't fit into any of their categories. It's all a big lie
just like their entire safe little world, a world they would love to
brainwash me into being part of. Unfortunately for them, dulled
senses, narrow-mindedness and hypocrisy aren't where I'm at.
Call it darkness, call it sundown, midnight, the witching hour,
blind man's holiday, call it what you like. It's my world. Not because
it keeps me comfortable like them, but because it welcomes me
with uncertainty, life on the edge and the possibility of headlights
waiting for me as I go tearing around the next blind turn.
Occasionally, the moon will show itself enough to let me see the curb
I'm skating or the lip of a ramp, but it is the darkness that feeds my lust
for life and keeps me hidden from the rules and regulations of
their world.
It's now that their world becomes my world. All the places
they so avidly protect in the day become twisted and fearful
to them. I have nothing to fear from the night; I am the only
scary thing in the dark. I am the boogeyman their children
scream about. I am the prowler in their backyard. I am the
cause of those strange pock marks that appear in their
newly plastered pools every morning. The bravest
among them may peek outside long enough to see me
56. THRAUER MACA
VAISS
Brian Frostod
(inset) goes
underground for a
little heel to toe
night driving
Kenny Usamanot
keeps a laid back
composure on top
of the Harlem
banks.