Hungry and late I pedalled furiously down 10th ave. Thoughts of burritos and beer swirled in front of my eyes and I barely caught sight of you coming towards me a few metres ahead, flipping over your handlebars and sliding over the rough asphalt on your face. When I reached you your eyes fluttered open and you began to gasp violently, your lungs scraping and scrounging for air. By then your friend had caught up, tossed his bike by mine and we asked you various questions regarding your health. You looked annoyed when I asked if your head was okay as blood steadily leaked from its temple. Eventually your breathing became more regular, you rose to your feet and the blood dried in an almost graceful, serpentine pattern down your face. It reminded me of spaghetti noodles bathed in marinara sauce. My hunger reared itself again and I checked one more time if you were alright before taking off towards my original concern.