Maybe music is the key to life, she sprayed onto the tunnel wall. Maybe children. Maybe love. Too-bright headlights suddenly invaded the tunnel, and she turned so that it looked like she was smoking.
The car had stopped. She peeked over her shoulder, and the policeman was reading the wet paint, shaking his head. “Did you write this?”
“Yes officer.”
“Unfortunately, this is illegal. Have you finished?”
“Not yet, officer.”
The stood in silence for a long time.
“This tunnel needs a poet, sir.” And she sprayed as he watched, Or maybe we should all forget about keys to life.
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