Byline: Nothing Saying

Buford Youthward

Having access to the biggest, baddest pens, greatest instruments in the world, facing up to the fact you have nothing to say what do you do?

No one has to tell me. I know it's always open season for revivalists and revisionists.

When creating an image, starting with the warts sometimes presents a better rendering than the bigger picture. Profiles provide only so many dimensions.

A collection of sins is gathered and people forced to change find no other choice but anger. I'm not trying to get kissed by mushy grinds of coffee frothing in soggy filters. Please, no wasabi eyewash for me, thank you.

Back in the day, I watched nunchuck fights at blind schools for fools. I rode dirt bikes through city parks and golf courses across from the train yards where the best forts were built.

We set fires and so forth, came back burnt up but well meaning. Jumping out of airplanes later on with a uniform on, then hitching rides up and down the east coast slinging a guitar and good times, I keep my keep on.

The graffiti was always the key, the great foundation and philosophy. There is no better game for kids looking for a comeup. Everything else is such a comedown.

The thrill of trying to figure out which was a better feeling, getting your game across with brilliance, or hearing about others talking about your game. Letting go and growing are sometimes the same thing.

Taking a ride, tracking the essence, sniffing for the invisible history where something comes from, I find it always comes down to determining who were the street fighters and who were the rolling stones.

Don't listen to that cat with zero good-guy skills who tries to shame celebration. I'm literally hellbent on trying to make reading fun, stick with me I may have cool shit to say.

Even if I'm not saying nothing that nobody doesn't already know.

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