One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #8.

If death were a spaceship, she'd be near Jupiter by now. I think about this as I watch clouds hide inestimable swathes of space, one at a time, and reveal them again, peek-a-boo. I wonder how we look, spiraling towards our deaths around the center of some cosmic discotheque of light. The sun has a million facets, and I only walk when it shows none.

The blankets they wrapped her in are finishing out-processing at the Clinical Sanitation Department of the NWPD. I am aware of this because I've been tracking every piece of memorabilia connected with the scene. My religion will need holy relics.

I stop for coffee again, hoping I'll like it, hoping some day I'll acquire the taste. It, like religion, is useful, if bitter.

I don't like silk, or coffee, or grill cheese, or game shows. She didn't like air conditioning, or people who used the word 'parodoxically' too often. She preferred leno to letterman, and voted democrat, on tuesdays, free will on thursdays.

I throw the coffee out the window, and decide to find a Starbucks for a latte.