Words

stare out to the street. at the electric trees. the glaring moon. and a cityscape.
you came on a taxi sailing through the river of oil. now you are stuck. in one out of fifty three rooms on the twelfth floor of the granite building on two hundred and fourth street.
the trees buzz and flicker. people yell. alley cats yell. pigeons yell. it is all burnt coffee and the smell of old book pages.
'i want to stab my eyes out'
why, he replied. but she already turned away.
the trees blew a fuse and the street turned black.