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  • Night is when the incandescing goes into its post-helium phase.

    Night is when the gases of the hypomania of day and even the post-twi go into their more shroom and zoom and doom gaseosity and we ride the yellowness and the ghostly greens of the storefronts now vacant, but for one spectre eating the last end of the smoke.

    Night is when we ride in our gravity elation the small motorbike down the big avenue and it is the carbon monoxide of the living we inhale.

    Night is for cellos.

    Night is for the string section.

    Night comes the Bach.

    Night when the solo string like a brain on loose, on a leash all diamonds, wanders the aftermatter of life. Yet it feels like an essential element, this fog we travel through. These life slats.

    Night, when the sweet viola tells the story to our aortae of the veins unexplained.

    At night, alone, travelling compacted on wheels in our protective leather, memories of Hong Kong come back. It was Hong Kong. We were speaking Spanish. Nat King Cole was singing, Besame Mucho. The night understood. Bach was on his motorbike, back and forth over the night rosin.

    (Photo by Susan, New York City interior)
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