Which is to say

Conurb, in the nighttime, through a fog-thwarted pair of glasses. The muffled thrusts of a matchstick old-fashionedly held to a cigarette. The melodramatic glower of a passing pedestrian. The thrill of a looming streetlamp. Its being only a streetlamp. Breasts not offered but triumphantly half-brandished. Leaping, then, across an incontinent gulch, knowing, then, a thwarted peace, finding, then, a poster for a camp skit campily played down, its campy actresses laid campily out in a matchstick line; watching, then, a fiend, splashing unconcernedly by. The filtered fakeness of a not-yet-dawn. The anxiety of a future only half-glimpsed. The pedantry of this. The pedantry of this. The strand of hair that remains clutched. The concrete. The oreo-cookie.