I parked my car in the side street. It was two in the morning and everything was dark. I grabbed Jake’s BWH cap off the backseat and put it on my head in an attempt to mask my face. I rushed over to the crack; my heart was beating in my chest, but not in a bad way. Not in a way that made me feel panicky, but in a way that made me feel alive and exhilarated. I’d never done anything like this before in my entire life, and a part of me couldn’t believe I was even doing it, but I was.

I pushed the tape aside and put my bag down. Gave one last look around before I opened it and spilled the brushes and cans of paint onto the road. They tumbled out and sounded so loud, like rocks falling over the edge of a cliff. Maybe it was loud because there were no other sounds around; maybe it was loud because all my senses felt heightened. I felt like I was on fire. I could see better, think better, and smell better. There was a buzz and a hiss that felt like it was radiating throughout my entire body, zapping all my cells to life.

I took a deep breath and looked at the hole and crack one last time. It was broken now, but it would grow again. I grabbed the first can of spray paint and shook it. I’d never worked with spray paint before, never even thought to work with it. I’d seen artists use it, so I knew it was difficult, and that there was a technique to it, but for some reason when I’d seen it in the shop and held it in my hand, it had felt as if it was meant to be there. As if I would know what to do with it. And I did.