This city sleeps improperly in such weather; its pores are suffocating its teeth restless. One can only move through the streets in a hurried haze, oblivious to the armies of people parading through colder streets elsewhere, where dampness has formed and not fled in fear of the coming war. The overture arcade assures its people to stay put, love the sweet perfume, which drips invisibly from the mouths of soldiers. If love cannot save this poor girl time will soon be useless. If all the bridges do not sweep her away from her heart she is a failure. If the memories of Mexican wine and cavernous alleyways which held kissing scenes no longer serve as sufficient injections to her sick heart, she will have to dive into the green river which sleeps in curves and moves with time. The barbershops have all lined up together awaiting the news….
AWAITING THE NEWS