I slept pointing south, no, I can't remember. My head is a compass, it has been set reeling. There are dreams of wild libertines ranting about free will. I have scattered toothbrushes throughout this city. It was late in the day, it was time to go again. It was time to go. I have determined sludge-metal to be the anthem of this season, the speakers in the truck blown. There are guitars to growl and hum like my blood hums, loud enough to feel it in my chest like a collision. I leave the windows down in the truck for the wind, our quick movement across this city resembling flight.
Robinson street cuts across this story, the story isn't anything to fall in love with. That would be stupid. Over by the lake the road isn't Robinson anymore it's something else, it is the fountain road. The sun hadn't set, there was pink yet in the sky shot deep into the water, gas lights ringed the lake in orange, reflected like a constellation there, the deep blue left in dusk ran deep throughout, the surface chopped by wind, the fountain caught the white hot from the tennis court lights. It sparkled, fragmented, and danced. It danced like a falling chandelier might dance.
