So trying to write about an experience in a round about way as applied to the character who remains unnamed so far. It ties in some other ideas and tries to bring some meaning though also while underlying the inherent lack of meaning in the gestures mentioned. See below.
It had been a fairly uneventful day all up and he wondered down deserted streets. It was a bright autumn day in Sydney the sun tempered by a cool breeze. He walked through the central business district. It was a Sunday and the city was dead in parts even more so heading past Martin Place. Soon people started appearing looking for ferries at the quay. He walked around as though in a daze that day but he had some plans to catch some trains from Circular Quay station and do some circuits of the city circle writing his tag on the trains. It was 1988 and the Australian bicentenary was on the calendar though a lot of people he knew were not going to celebrate european invasion. A lot of the prominent taggers and anti social agitators were from Redfern and Waterloo. Their idea of a celebration was running amok.
The escalator slowly delivered him to the platform and a train came thundering along the platform coming to a stop. He walked into the last car of the train and was suddenly immersed in a black scrawl that seemed to disfigure the carriage and carry his eyes in every direction looking for any distinguishing marks. The interior was illegible and immersed from top to bottom in black ink. There was nowhere to put a tag so he stood there and felt as though this was an epiphany. This car embodied the movement and momentum of his generation. They were going to push their agenda even if it was collectively meaningless although the black of the carriage was a skin of black ink. The skin that had at that point been mostly disenfranchised and at a time when colonisation was celebrated the trains became a collective hysteria. He knew and others knew that this was as bad as it had ever been. It seemed everyone was looking to deface to the point of complete break down of the blatant individuality of graffiti itself. They were happy to disappear into the chaos of collective disdain.
For him though it meant a lot more. It proved graffiti was an experience like no other. It was blinding and obsessive to the point were normal realities could be reset. Nothing mattered more than tags in that they were a heartbeat of rebellious zeal. This experience itself was proof that what was seen as form following function could be form becoming immersion. So many people were in effect lost in language itself and to fight back people had to use words to disfigure and transform space itself.