May 23, 2011
The radio host has a cyclical voice; its rise and fall remind him of his skateboarding days, when he skirted past old men and small children outside the town hall at night. When midnight struck the benches became empty and his friends turned up the music, thumping soundtrack for their rocking down the stairs, their halts and falls. The wheels screeched and it blended with their laughter, a group of teenage boys with pale skin and oversized jeans, untouched by life.
The radio host has a cyclical voice; its rise and fall remind him of his skateboarding days, when he skirted past old men and small children outside the town hall at night. When midnight struck the benches became empty and his friends turned up the music, thumping soundtrack for their rocking down the stairs, their halts and falls. The wheels screeched and it blended with their laughter, a group of teenage boys with pale skin and oversized jeans, untouched by life.
Once he almost knocked over his girlfriend at the time who was sitting by the bushes. For over an hour he had been oblivious to her presence. He spun, turned corners around the stone lions, pierced the music in his trance. His clarity was gone the instant he looked up and saw his girlfriend. She tripped and bent over, palms on the ground while she pushed to lift herself. Then she splinted and missed him crashing into the green, his skateboard sliding away to safety by the bin.
The last glimpse he caught of her was the hem of her short skirt. It was layers of black and white nylon.
Very cool and nice to have you in the project, Nicolette.
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