the quiet rubbery hiss of a dying afternoon
The afternoons are all heat and static. I broke into an abandoned department store. The floors were bare, the shelves gone. But the escalators were still running. I vomited on my way up to the second floor. I found an old catalog and masturbated over black & white photographs of hosiery models. I took my isolation sickness to the roof of the parking garage at the end of the day and watched the sun set over a thousand miles of empty parking lots.