"Hey Peter, where are you going with that axe in your hand?"

Another night spent watching Les Enfants du Paradis burning candles and talking nonsensical high on opiates revisionist world history.

By morning there was wax all over the wood and the dog was eating her Chanel lipstick out of the trash. From Burlington to Albuquerque we'd tried to score. Passed out on the black sand beaches of New Zealand. She crashed hard in that Basque hotel. I still have the towel I used to cover her when she was shivering and shaking on the balcony.

Backpacking like late 70's wayward hippies barefoot across Auckland to Karekare Beach and Mount Eden. The beautiful countryside the Maoris call Aotearoa, "Land of the Long White Cloud." Speaking of long white clouds we were fresh out and scratching again. At times like this even the sound of the ocean gets on your nerves. Its ugly stuff.

I remember I watched her car drive slowly down my street and knew I only had a few minutes before she'd be standing before me, soaking wet and demanding answers. Her cats were like eyes and her song was a voice.

By the way the ivy shook I could tell a warm wind would soon wipe the slate clean. That's when I heard a knock and the next thing I knew I was all a halo of cartoon stars and my eyes blinded by a glaring antiseptic light. I was on back in the hospital again. My wallet was gone and the last thing I could remember was my trip on the D train to Brighton Beach.

What the fuck was I doing in Brighton Beach? I didn't know anyone out there.