To begin with, the streets are all wrong. There are too many colors that can�t
dispel the rumor that heaven and hell compete for what lies beneath these thin scabs
of cement. I found delinquent pleasure there. I looked at him: his eyes were digital monitors playing snuff flicks in opposite directions. He clenched fiber-optic cable with his teeth. The backpack shredded on his shoulder scattered poems that didn�t need him anymore.

As he passed, some pedestrians began to die; others were being born on the sidewalk. I tried to stop him from getting on the bus. My arms hung like wet sleeves.

Now I understand why a man is simplified when his psychosis is mapped out with a series of stations and terminals. Follow the arrows, the escalators; bring a mouth full of magic words. You can creep, on any number of wheels, like a subway, nearly anywhere through the thin dirt of his mind.