Headlights bare a suture of earth, a wooden shack. A bat like darkness wrestless for some destination. The boy, picked-up, asks werent there stars made-up a lover there someplace in the night.
The old stretch limo screeched to a stop at Christie and Rivington, hurling Morty and Eve against the bullet-proof partition. The Russian driver lit a cigarette. He removed his upper row of gold teeth and carefully polished them with his handkerchief.
sweltering night in Hong Kong and youre staying in a crowded deteriorating high-rise on the Kowloon side of the harbor thats occupied by poor Indian migrant workers and their countless fetid and windowless restaurants. Everything is filthy.