Fried eggs despise classless fools

We should be catchers in a rye, should be a lot more things, should embody a tad more characters, we shall live and float like grilled penguins on hot water, roar like mischievous tigers when another voice yells louder than ours. But we're quiet as nuns under the sunshower, stuck between red bricks and flawless freedom, enjoying the last kisses of a dying summer stuttering its last words in a light blue whisper. The wind is friendly, the leaves are happy and our silly planet keeps its pace to make us dumber than yesterday. Imaan (CODE Management, pictures by Zoe Ghertner for i-D's site) hits and runs, hits our eyes and runs, flies her way, makes every impossible somehow possible. Every tomorrow bears the scars of today, every next year carries the weight of its older sisters. But nothing can prevent some newness from eating the cream of the scene, from biting the rope others had planned to use, from throwing lights, and painting bright the darkest corridor. May the tramway cry and our teary eyes go far, beauty reigns by a mile.