whats-a-silas:
Of the many things Silas had planned on doing with his weekend, the one thing he had absolutely not planned was staring at a specific graffiti mark in front of a trashy restaurant he had absolutely zero intention to enter. “D’you think the people inside think I’m a fuckin’ freak right about now?” He questioned, turning to the person he’d heard approaching him on the sidewalk. “I can’t make any fuckin’ sense of what this is supposed to say. I can’t tell if artists are gettin’ lazier, or I’m gettin’ worse at understandin’ basic shit.”
Tasha stared aimlessly ahead at the colorful vandalism, head cocked to the side. At the sound of his voice she jumped, turning to him with eyes shielded by sunglasses, mouth hanging open. “Maybe,” she answered honestly, hiccuping. So she was a little drunk. But it was already, like, noon. “It looks like...colors.” She shook her head, words slurring slightly.











