Gates were sealed shut at Hightower Singles Bar. Prison hulks (or drinks in plastic cups) ferried thoughts all night long, embodied in silence, drunkeness, and strutting human flesh.

Heart in hand, hand over heart, he woke floating upside down admist the glitter of the bay; an alligator who never had any taste for the stalk and chase.

Sabbath again (last night it was the festival of earthen lamps in that oppposie country; it doesn't matter. He is free and lost). At the table (in the absence of whispered prayer) a lamenting cantata by Bach on CD, as his hand absently palms the cracked street map of this place called Soul.