They moved through parallel lives after hours. Birds slept. The building heaved a sigh in appreciation of its solitude, humbly cradling the night watchman. No superman swept overhead. A boat wept in the harbor. Transsexuals laughed, stumbling home in fantastic heels. Tom Waits smoked a cigarette at the edge of a gas station twenty-seven miles out of town, casting the glowing butt away. The trees all wore the veils of widows. A glass bottle shattered into the silence of 35th street. A girl wished to be loved like the Taj Mahal. The moon glared down at them all jealously.
