The grass is warm underfoot, and the blades are soft and tickle the skin. All around are clusters of people, sitting and talking and happy, their chatter met with the sounds of the city, an endless expanse of radiant white noise.
And then there are the skateboarders, all stooped shoulders and oversized shirts, either falling over their decks or sat, spectating, somewhat askance, giving the same weary sigh of support at every either pass or fail between puffs on a grubby rollup. They are in view of the entire plaza – making fools or heroes of themselves – and yet, there’s an uncanny air about their performance.. It’s as if, to them, nobody was here at all, and they were completely alone amongst themselves in some suburbian council offshoot. One such failure results in a clatter so loud and calamitous that the board cleaves clean in two, and the collective gaze of every head in the plaza rises to meet the moment. All but the skaters, who puff and murmur on, betraying no impression of any kind of altercation whatsoever. Pft. It must be they are trying to appear this way, stoic, unaffected – this their daily function must not pay heed to shock and awe, must preserve that cool air of indifference against all odds… Or perhaps, they really don’t care, the damage is by and by, they are well-off or well-accustomed and I’m just getting sour in my old age.. I am, most probably, the same age, it’s just, I feel older now – now that I’ve stopped engaging in such youthful exploits myself.
But, alas, the grass is warm underfoot and the blades are soft and tickle the skin. All around are clusters of people, sitting and talking and happy, their chatter met with the sounds of the city, an endless expanse of radiant white noise.
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