Night Walks

The night-time shade is thick and concealing like ink. It is penetrated in front of his widened eyes by a long, angular face, corpse-white, with sparkling blue eyes and a smile. The face passes by, other faces can be seen, cracking through the dimness, their all-too-familiar pallor. he sits and he walks, he avoids the formal prescriptions of social interaction, he is comming from a party; he would like to be walking now arm in arm with a friend whom he could lean in close to and whisper something, whose eyes would be vacant, big-yellow like lemons, and watching the passers-by. Recently he held a dog brain, smaller than one might think, in his cupped hands and smelled the blood. If he could smell his own brain it would smell the same.

It is summer time, but the night is so black and the street lights so orange that he can almost see the fat, white snowflakes falling beneath them, reflecting their light all the more powerfully for the wind which blows them quickly slantwise. Thousands of golden shooting-stars comming on like a train, falling a thousand miles per hour, knocking him down with their wanton, dizzying, unrestrained momentum. He shivers. He thinks. His thoughts turn to dust. France is a really strange place, what sort of party was that anyway? I should have never gone, that is true, but why did I leave so early? Pink and white tulips as big as buffaloes with marbled streaks of white swallow up store-fronts whole. Why all the goddamn flowers? So bright one can hardly sleep.