as my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb, concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone

cutting with my sketchbook down elm street in the vanilla dusk, passing -- look, the houselights flickering on -- passing the pubs along the avenue, each one inviting with temerity and sinister pomp. i dodged every one and landed (comfortably) into the coffeeshop. it was just another night for work, another night to revel in my fame and genius, my staggering and brilliantly marketed book sales in copenhagen, my own fraud and delusion, or perhaps this night was just a dream and we're together in tangiers or on some star, you and i.

i advanced to the counter, and you've gotta imagine the scene:

-- her hair curved coyly 'round her face. the way her lips were glossy and a bit chapped at the corners, and when i made a half-hearted attempt at humor, the way her eyes widened, quick with pleasure, as she looked up shybrightly. (oh, but these are only footnotes, forget-me-nots.) i paid her for the coffee and went to sit down. whence i opened the sketchbook, the coffee spilled a big, black tear on the page, and i scribbled some notes about being wounded, broken, like... but it was only second-rate inspiration, and i was soon at a loss.

i gazed outside and snow began to fall. it fell like soft, mad cherubs, disturbing the philosophy of untrammeled skies, strange gods shaking the world...

"hey," someone said, "how's it going, man?"

i looked up and recognized monica in this not-too-big city.

"hi."

"i read your review of les savy fav," she said. "is that our review? ...nevermind. i'm so presumptuous."

"sort of," i said. "it's a novella."

she laughed politely and told me her and keith were going back to hang at their place if i felt like joining.

being uninspired and easily led astray from my work, i said i did. keith was smoking just outside the doorway. snowflakes landed gently all around.

"we have a show in new york next weekend. maybe you'd like to call violet and invite her over before we all head out," keith said.

"that's probably a good idea," i said, suppressing my eagerness.

so i called her, feeling confident with her bandmates around, and she said she'd walk over.

at their flat, monica moved and dusted, dreamily showing her photographs, when i noticed sooty lashes shading high colored irises and hot cheeks. violet had arrived. we sat around exchanging photographs and small pieces of dingy poetry keith wrote for songs.

"oscar tells me you're writing a book," violet prodded.

"sort of. it's not going especially well," i said.

"well, i'd love to read it sometime, when you're finished."

"that'd be fine. but right now i'd better be going. i could walk you home..."

we said goodbye, left, and walked away, two exotic birds in the snowdrift city.

on the corner you could hear tunes from the jazz joint where two crazy saints were smoking in their pajamas.

"call me before i leave."

the light went out.