I was walking through McCarren Park in Williamsburg, Brooklyn yesterday, and I got lost in a sea of whirling hipsters. One tattooed arm blended into a dragon-swirled back whose black ink strokes gave way to long black hair and shaggy bangs that shook out over eyes seeing the same.
But through the swirls and pools of people banding together to be different, I caught a scene of innocence, and it was so, so refreshing. Like lemonade and ices, and sticky fingers in summer–before the summer turns into the drudge in which we have a sticky commute while pining for iced coffee.
P.S. Contrary to how this post comes across, I have a love for hipsters