2) My dermatologist succumbs to voodoo prayer rituals of Mission Street storefronts at three in the morning.

3) The pharmacist was bleeding from one eye. He returned, drunk, to the pharmacy on a Sunday evening after being turned away from a dinner party. I gave him a home-made collage of prescriptions and threatened him with a flame-thrower. "I need something," I told him. "A burial in pill form. A pill-shaped burial of all the sunsets."

4) I gave up on searching for a hand to hold. I sink into brighter lights. Distance killed everyone I used to know.

5) Way out here. I am alone. Way out here.