Tilt-a-whirl sends off cascade of small doughnuts down the stairwell. Damn. That stairwell is meant to be off-limits at this hour. But now I guess they let anybody and their cousin or whoever run around in there.
It’s that hour and who cares about the damn sunset when the line of lamps all light up from, firstly, far away, then closer and closer still. The moonlight tower above flares up: the signal for the barker (nobody cares that his name is Matthew) to step up his game.
Sex Funeral is half your Doo-Wop quartet, but, wait a minute, a Doo-Wop quartet never behaved this way, crashing shoulder-first into lamp-posts, thrashing through dark webbed cellars and playing this way then that way then that way a different way, thrashing about in the stairwell, bombing 80K on simple sedans, faces and asphalt shoved together. The National Asphalt Pavement Association might have something to say about this, if they ever got a clue. And that’s nothing to shake a sleigh bell at.
The passage is clear today - that’s one thing. One thing entirely different than other things, like a tuning fork. Might never get back this way, the same way to the same spot.
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