Our apartment building was tagged the other night.
Black paint dripped down the shade in the hallway, vulgar words stained the mailbox.
I started thinking about when 

I used to write poetry in library books. 

Constructive vandalism, I called it.

I wanted to share what I was thinking, to allow someone to feel what I was feeling. I would imagine it was a pleasant surprise for a dear stranger. That's all it was, a form of expression. Isn't that what this blog is? Isn't that what graffiti is? Does that make me the same as the individuals with a can in their hands? Same intent, different weapons. When I was younger, I would press leaves in hardcovers. When I came across them again it was such an ecstatic feeling, I had been there before. A part of  me wanted to create that for someone else. I wonder if anyone read them. I wonder what they were feeling when they read my words. I wonder if anyone reads this.