What... if.

In the authentic, unrelenting world of city streets, where the neon signs flicker like the remnants of a fever dream, there's a code that beckons the street artists to navigate the chaotic urban jungle with a sense of ironic detachment.

It's a code that mirrors the chaotic spirit of Hunter S. Thompson's Gonzo journalism, where the idealism of the masses clashes with the stark realities of life in the city.

Truth; If you can maintain your composure while everyone around you seems to be losing their minds, pointing fingers in your direction, and holding you responsible for their own tumultuous lives, then you're in for a wild ride.

Trusting in your artistic vision when the entire world doubts your sanity is a bit of a paradox, but making allowances for their skepticism is all part of the game.

To endure the ceaseless waiting, the relentless ticking of the city's clock, and resisting the temptation to spin your own web of deceit when surrounded by falsehoods is a masterclass in irony.

In a city where hostility simmers just beneath the surface, refusing to succumb to hatred while maintaining a façade of humility without appearing overly self-assured is a delicate art.

If you can dream amidst the discordant symphony of sirens and urban cacophony, and yet not become a slave to those dreams; if you can think in the midst of the chaos, where rational thought often seems like a distant memory, and not let thoughts become your sole obsession, then you've mastered the art of irony.

Confronting both triumph and disaster with the same sense of detached amusement is like dancing on the edge of absurdity.

When the truths you've boldly proclaimed are twisted and mangled by cunning hands to ensnare the unsuspecting or when the very essence of your street art is torn asunder, the ability to stoop and rebuild, using tools that have seen better days, is an act of artistic defiance.

Amassing all your creative winnings, the praise and accolades, and betting them all on a single roll of fate's dice, knowing full well that luck is a fickle mistress, is an exercise in irony.

When you inevitably lose, as the odds dictate, you don't utter a word about your losses. Instead, you start over, a survivor with a heart and nerve of steel, serving your artistic purpose long after conventional wisdom would advise against it.

In a city where virtue is a rare commodity, you somehow manage to retain your moral compass amidst the tumultuous crowds, and when you walk among the powerful and influential, you don't lose sight of your roots. Enemies and fair-weather friends come and go, but their influence can't sway you.

You've mastered the fine art of ironic detachment. In those unforgiving minutes of your existence, where each second is an opportunity and a challenge, you fill them with a calculated sense of distance, seizing every chance the city streets offer with a wry grin.

If you can exemplify this ironic code, the city and all its absurdities could be yours to navigate.

And, in the end, you'll be a true artist of irony, a master of the urban irony-scape, thriving where others falter, all with a sense of detached amusement at the circus of life in the city.

-- JSPC [ The Street Artists of Wanton ]