Vasculature

He had a vision that the sewers moved like spaghetti under the streets, or like the long grass beneath a hose. He wanted to capture this vasculature somehow—these brick organs of whales—but paint and words and celluloid seemed cheap and embarrassing. He thought he might tell the little boys who lived downstairs, about this sly life of the city, and watch as their dark eyes bloomed. Mostly though the boys were afraid of him, edging out of his weak shadow unless he had something for them to eat. Lastly, he decided he would go to the park and with a piece of white chalk outline the skeleton of his dream on the public bathroom wall. This way, the bums and trysting men could look up from what they were doing, see the stained blue reality that coiled beneath them. He could watch as they stumbled out, drunk and disgorged, swaying in line with the lonely ideas of ignorant old men.