Night. I was in the city and the odd criss-cross of branches, watching them, lying on a mound of turf, by a sepulchred monument, a statue on a horse, drops of rain dripping off my nose, over the arch of my lip, onto my tongue, falling from the tree. Acer. Acid.

Beautiful dancing boys, wallowing in the electric lights, and the sliver of shivering music, just down the block. Car, clatter. Someone threw a beer out the window. The residue of alcohol cycling on the edge of the cylinder. Or maybe it was a bottle? But then why not the splinter of glass dazzling into a million pieces? Or maybe less.

Chill wind shuddering, my lips murmuring an errant phrase, "Phoebe silvarumque potens Diana". Diana by the moonlight! A virgin! The hand idles over to the tip, flicked through denim, and the tube grows, stretches out like a subterannean, sulfuric monstrosity. Or perhaps a little string of moss.

"Fell over laughing", stamps, feet! Abrupt move away from pubic, curl into the statue's shadow. Two girls, ruby slippers, pernicacious stockinged limbs, tight, seamless dress, black and white on the right and on the left, passing, laughing.