White Trash

The sketchy guy in the bus station is always there, like the legendary hitchhiker, white trash, twitching and pacing, shoulders pinned back by the force of gravity, occupying some form dictated by his inner child on drugs.  Back and forth without a gyroscope he cuts his nervous system loose on an unsuspecting populace, guided by some inner GPS.  It’s the same guy wherever I go- blood-shot eyes, unshaven face, hair matted from tortured sleep or lack thereof.  Go to Timisoara and it’s still the same guy, except he’s waiting for a train instead of a bus that’ll never come, part Gypsy and all a blur, pencil lines on white paper, cheap animation from unemployed sketch artists, cheap wine on cracked pavement.  It’s good to see a time capsule of evolution.  These are the guys that scoured the world in search of fame and fortune and fresh femmes, everything to gain and nothing to lose, drunk and scurvied and dripping with gonorrhea.  They changed the world in somebody else’s image and likeness.

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