mom bicycles with toddler in the back. he is maybe three or four, all his limbs tucked inside for best aerodynamics. he sports a helmet, and, after he passes me, two paper wings attached to his arms with elastic bands. the wings are made of construction paper. he proudly displays his wingspan, takes flight, and his mom, now a passenger, doesn't have to pedal anymore.

tattooed, bald woman orders an orange crush at the coffee shop at 11pm. it is raining outside. she positions her chair to face the street, propping her feet on the window opening to watch the passerby. she takes one sip of her orange crush and begins to nod off. i read about studying the topography on skulls to determine personality via walt whitman as the barista approaches, taps her hairless head, and reminds her to stay awake.

the power goes off in a suburban, public library at 10am on a monday. a few gasps here and there, clicks of flashlights, but you know, librarians never lose their cool. i stroll around to the travel guide section which is right next to the line of ten computers for free internet usage. seated in the middle, a middle aged woman says "fuck this shit" and knocks on the glass screen three times. as if awaiting a reply, she pauses a few seconds before she gets up and leaves. a pubescent boy happily takes her place and reads his manga, one leg over the other, while waiting for the return of the 'net.