Maybe the graffiti posters are to the streets what that dog-eared book is to your night table. Strange narratives opening while you sleep. All the read and unread parts unfolding, drifting. Settling in new places.
This pig for instance. Where’s he flying off to? I want to know. A meadow? A cloud? A nice muddy pen?
And who will he meet along the way?
My book idea is gaining traction. I’ll just let it percolate for now. While I keep dreaming of wheatpaste and peeling paper. Talking pigs.