January 6th. 12:05 AM. Streets. GLASS’s notes disclose little about the last forty-eight hours. Checks his pocket: no cigarettes. Trigger finger yearns.

 

Gl.

The street is different somehow.

Something to do with the photons

And their negation.

 

Street isn’t reflecting light anymore;

The photons fall like duds like

The structure is gone like

 

Nothing whispers to me anymore.

Do I share nothing anymore with the streets which constitute me?

Shit, my jig is all the way up.

​

‘Pow.’ A distant plaintive bleat. A bullet through an abdomen.