I sleep in a cloudy room. Something happened there. I have a feeling.

Pleased to meet you. The wall is covered in tiny scratches and full of pushpins. Should I tell them?

The afternoon, with the fog burned away, a yellow beam across the parking lot where shadow trees ten times taller than their parents rest and flicker, there are three cars parked on opposite corners.

Exhaust and the brake lights glow, and the windows are damp. Forget a cigarette butt out the window. Let me tell you something.

His eyes are green. I bought him a sweater for his birthday. He's a dullard with long sharp fangs and fingers. I sleep with his hand across my chest.

In some office somewhere a server is down for maintenance. We both sigh, i crack my neck and knuckles. If you speak softly in the dark everything you say is true

The truth we believe, in honest work, the toiling of muscle and metal or afloat on an ocean of slag, that's a truth.

We fix the engine a drizzly day in some muck on a lonely roadside, grease in our fur. Something to eat? The heat's up all the way. Play something on the radio. Sure, hamburgers. Hamburger and a coke.

When we're finally home it's nearly midnight, so the boys are too tired to wash up, that is: to hell with the clean sheets. A little oil never hurt anybody.

After a minute or so the car's headlights (shining warmly through the droplets on the window, a sliver of light under the bedroom door) click off on their own. Nobody's awake to see them