There's a little piece of Shelley's Dr. Frankenstein in all graffiti
writers. And for that matter, there is a bit of Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll/Mr.
Hyde and Stoker's Dracula apparent as well. The maniacal nature of creation
and the exhortation to celebrate and participate in invention inevitably
feeds and flows from the same fountain which harbors the pangs of
What is considered criminal isn't necessarily immoral. All liberties need
to be seized when causes are just. There is no cause more just than one
which enables the human spirit. Bound by law, walking a tight rope hoisted
by those that wish to enforce and maintain the conforming class, the modern
graffiti writer is wont to step back and laugh.
Laughing out loud at the world is not the mark of the insane but the clever
Cool Hand Luke engaged in creative destruction. The headstrong bantam
caught between the world of making and unmaking is only left with a shrug of
apathy to cast in the wind.
Watching the masses grow dependent on transition, brushing their appearance
with social flouride, and living their lives on the safe and secure is like
living with someone else's skin. The only fashion worth crashing is the
life lived by design not default.
Observing the monster trapped as the windmill burns throughout the European
night and the withdrawl of Jekyll's tonic setting up sobriety, I can't help
but believe the sunshine is guilty of casting the vampire in us all away
from who we are.
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