The light here is brighter. The colors more pungent and the white as blue as Kristin Poms' were in high school, something I always thought to be the result of a slightly freakish accident in the pioneering of Brite Smile technology. I have escaped the kitchen cum makeup room for a cement seat amongst some plants. Some ways down the street a drum line plays on invisibly. I cannot venture out to further investigate the noise, as I have given myself a thirty-foot leash from the venue doors.
A woman walks past sloppily with a tireless seeingeye dog. I wonder of it's self-awareness in terms of good Samaritanship. I hope she feeds him treats at nighttime; little dog treats shaped like dirty brown cupcakes.
Some man in the drumline yells in Swahili or some African language not offered in my high school ciriculum. The older woman in khakis and a white shirt shimmies about, uncoordinated but well intentioned. "Godeh! Godeh! Godeh! Everybody, move it! Animahl!" I am probably a bit off.
A bug crawls on my right wrist. A streetcar drives by. "18th and Lovejoy." How pleasant a destination, I think. A woman's large bottom walks past, perfectly timed with the bass drum I can only hear.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
