They were the original dreamers under stars in a maddening desert, who wandered around and around under the cold of a not-yet morning sun. They disappeared from a city overlooked by a statuesque golden angel; around her the cars round about and speak of her fictitious liberty, and they reappeared in the city of Angels.
She was 19 and he was 20.
They walked all night in knock off nikes, crossing inhospitable lands. They walked all day, their heads crowned with a glistening ring of sweat; it dripped into their eyes and flowed like the rio grande and bitterly found the mouth.
They looked at those who broke down crying and howling on their knees in vinyl jackets, the stitched statue of liberty weighing on their backs, trembling at the sight of their fears which reverberated inside the hollows of their eyes. They were done before they began.
They walked all night across mythless untitled divisions, looking up because looking down meant looking back. They walked towards a country that let itself be fucked in the ass. When penetrated, they would cry out indignantly, wailing of stars and stripes, even though they were the ones that had left the back door open.