Yesterday the city was filled with lights made of confetti and tofu. People walking in clusters of eleven; no less, no more. Everybody awoke that morning with tangled vines instead of their auburn/jet-black/ginger/aqua/golden/grass-green (!) hair. Tangled vines with dead cherubs at the ends, strangled. Planes fell from the sky.
Tezcatlipoca checked his foundation in the mirror, the watery lines of mascara running down his cheeks and staining his lips, staining the cigarette between his teeth casting grey fumes over his troubled expression.
Pre-teens fucked in alleyways. The elderly played Scrabble and snorted cocaine. The middle-aged died in a factory line throwing themselves mindlessly over the edge of the San Francisco bridge. Everybody was suffering.
The cats and rats and Christmas beetles were happy. Cross-legged in lawn chairs out the front of suburban households, sipping on Mai Tais. Phones were ringing in every block; cordless phones in apartment stretches, pay phones out front of Dino’s pizzeria, every iPhone and Blackberry in abandoned suit-pants. Nobody answered. [Buy.]