A Departure

            He jumped the fence on Flushing near North Elliot Street, or Portland, he didn’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Of course it doesn’t, but there was a truth. It was one of those and his recollection should not rob a depiction of the events of the events themselves. They jumped the fence, him first than his friend, bikes lock up on Navy St two blocks away, a surprising uncertain walk along poorly paved grounds he always hated biking. Flashlights and beers. The barbed wire covering the fence had already been cut, which in a way was why they were there in the first place, they saw it in the daylight three or more weeks ago walking to Clinton Hill after he had his tire replaced in Dumbo. What a good day. And the wire was already cut and my god did it look inviting. The perfect youthful getaway in a sense. Like out of Tom Sawyer. They didn’t bring spray cans though, he thought it should be noted. They could have brought spray cans. It was likely what the infamous cutter had done when he hopped the fence, so to speak paving their way. Graffiti shamefully was probably more of a odd fantasy to him so look he didn’t actually do it. Hadn’t thought to. Shamefully, but he did hop the fence! And he did drink some beers in there, probably not overcome by wonder at the decaying structure but goddamn did he try. No one could say otherwise anyway, right? People will say he was overcome by wonder, that’s what his friend will tell people. As they used to say, not terror, but awe. Not that that kind of distinction means anything anymore. An echo of an echo. It was triumphant. It was powerful at least and triumphant. And he had taken some photographs, second long exposures. And then they had been caught by the police and then he sat here. And he didn’t have to be here, he hadn’t had to jump the fence, it should be noted. This was just some weird hypothetical like the rest. What makes this more real? 


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