Last night we rode from an anarchist squat where Allen sometimes works to a bar across town, seven of us on five bikes. I rode on the back of Brookie’s bike and all across the silent town we rode. The trees and buildings and canals light up with small white lights and we ride an erratic course like a bug through candles. No better way to see this city than the back of Brookie’s clattering bike. Behind us four bikes in a rush through a tunnel of trees and canal and in front of us cobblestones and the promise of more beer which I can drink until my hands stop shaking and my face stops smiling and smiling.
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