You were an unrenowned street artist. trespassing in the unexplored parts of the city enticed you, leaving records/markings behind of you being there for years to come only adding to that excitement.

You clambered over the eroded, tarnished metal fence with a backpack slung over your shoulder. Your paint covered jeans snagging on the loose bits of metal as you jumped down. Landing with a thump and causing a puddle of oil to splash up onto the lower parts of your jeans. The concrete ground was cracked and overgrown, random junk scattered. There was no sign of someone being here before, no fire, no graffiti or any cigarette butts. In the underpass of the abandoned bridge, the ‘ceiling’ structured with concrete beams, You continued to walk through, the sun shining through the cracks and luckily providing light. Once you had decided on a spot, a clear patch of cemented wall, you emptied your bag onto the floor. The assortment of spray cans and artistic tools falling out. You took the mini speaker out from your hoodie pocket, connecting it to your phone before blasting some music. You rolled up your sleeves and grab your chipped spray can, sketching out the design in white. Immersed in the drawing and music you didn’t notice someone clamber down from the crumbling wall on the left hand side. Police sirens echoing from above. The man stared at you, lowering the hood of his hoodie before walking towards you. Grabbing a spray can from the floor next to you, before you could even retaliate to their presence they started adding to your drawing. Clearly experienced themselves. You watched them with a look of confusion and irritation, you couldn’t help but notice the clear wear and tear their clothes had gone through as well. The dirt, the stitches and the paint. As he caught you staring, he lowered the spray and stared back at you before turning up the music. It would seem that the two of you would be coming back here repeatedly. The whole underpass had empty walls after all.