It is raining on the city street in the downtown core, and the beggars are still out. They sit on streetcorners in the shelter of coffeeshops. They hold folding signs; these sell the object correlative of responsibility. For sale, the men and women wait crosslegged for the windfall to burgeon. Maria rides her red bicycle on the sidewalk, oblivious, headphones tuned to someone's energumen voice. When she tosses a quarter to one of these men, she feels something hit her in the back of the head. The bike rolls on. At the bar, she takes out the money that the government gave her - for her art - and buys a pitcher of beer for her friends. Only as she removes her hat to pull her pursestrap over her shoulder does she find the note. Stuck to the back of her head with a wad of gum.
"We do not give what we want to take."
"We do not give what we want to take."