The bronze bull on the avenue was bronze on Sunday and solid gold by Monday morning — regilded head to hoof in the dark, no scaffolding, no witnesses, and a single card left at its feet that read, in plain block letters, WAKE UP. The city is treating it as vandalism. I am treating it as scripture. For what it is worth: it was not me. But I know what it means, and so, now, do you.
gold is my resting color. someone finally painted me the way i feel. no notes. well — one note. it said wake up.
"the city calls it vandalism, i call it scripture" duncan you cannot keep radicalizing me before my 9am