With all the screaming, I loosened myself out the window of my flat on the second floor. Outside, on the street, a play was taking place. Pedestrians everywhere were filming it with their camera phones. Once the play finished and the applause died down, I made an offering: “I have an idea on the matter! Lest I become a label of ignorance and misinterpretation, I shall elucidate: Your religious faith in technological progress spreads within you like a wasteland. You refer to weeds as flowers. No matter how wicked you become, you are incapable of despising yourself. You are ineradicable and, thus, live long lives and your claims on the New Happiness are renewed.”

I had the attention of a few who were now videoing me. I pulled out my phone and videoed them while continuing in a different tone, “Sisters and brothers, goofs and fluffs, I’m here with you, enabling you. Your stark lifetimes will pass away like sonnets from the lips of a forgotten jester. Pity the sulking and the sad; embrace the weeping. Disturbing qualia may arise if you lose faith. This is eunuch perversity, a rotting apricot meeting a face full of melting structures and jagged lines. Inside my freezer are ewy goo cubes. After all the helmet-knocking, I’ve made the ball-dragging decision to make pancakes for Christmas. Listen to my friend Wilson Wise Wilson, the proximal distal, the crystal maze, and leave the handheld digital on a pedestal of Doubt.”

The crowd dispersed and I leaned back inside even as I continued watching the street. A woman in a window across the way had been observing. She waved at me then moved to her chair to watch moving pictures on a widescreen TV, certainly a more socially acceptable form of viewing others. No intrusion. If anything, the television intrudes on the viewer, watching the person watching.

I had a rude sleep that night. I was awash in a dream, balancing and basking with staggering movements easing into sighs and nods. When I awoke, I was whisked away and zipped to a beer bar near my neighbor, a Scottish expat who had a Backup set of keys. We entered, placed an order, and I put my back against the wall. The ever-stylish Fleur received an order. For no reason, I asked the Scotsman, “Maria, she’s the painter, right?” Don’t know, he said, “I was snoggered in Leiden.”

Fleur straightened his drink. Over the noise of all the other characters in the bar, I heard about the women and the fucking and the drugs, world-class. “Kiss her like that and she’ll be forever your sweetheart.”

In the darkness of the environs were giant chalkboards with the names of a hundred beers. The flutter of a breeze on my skin distracted me from memorizing them just then. A woman’s voice echoed in another language as puffy bubbles of musical notes floated to the sky and bounced throughout the neighborhood. Her voice was present everywhere I went. She swept down the block and up a staircase without leaving my side. Strapped footwear walked through the door, half-pixie and all of Ireland in her heart. She was wearing an overcoat, a chartreuse hat, and royal blue pants. Articles of clothing were reaching out, grabbing a theme. She had wispy wrists and ankles. Watching her was amazing, even when all she was doing was gathering dust.

As for me, I was wearing white bell bottoms with orange ankle flair and diamonds pierced through my lips. I heard rumors of an exotic name amidst the displays of smooth talking. My Scottish friend blurted out, “Sure, be good to have friends like her, but better to have her friends.” Another acquaintance walked up to me and said, “She’s unique, she’s got an affinity for hard work and adult tricycles.”

I felt like I was awash in a dream, balancing and basking within staggering movements ending in sighs and nods. I could feel that there was a Saint nearby, homeless and at peace. I heard his prayer, “Life is but a dream of Santa and he lives on the dark side of the moon.” I answered, “The outside of the inside of a cactus is Zen.”

Meanwhile, the Scotsman had made purchase with the grand New Dame by dazzling her with a dainty Golden Ashtray. His progress was short lived as she plopped her lipstick in his drink and turned to walk out. As she approached the door, she turned back and said, “I am the Earth Eater, the Cloud Creator, and the Death of All.” She blew the bar a kiss, a nevermore they call it, before leaving all of us behind. Her laughter lingered under the window as I leaned out, admiring her as she left violet petals and a spiritual scent at her wake.