old latina women pose for pictures underneath the fox marquee. raphael is playing tonight. cackling girls in patterned spandex sing soulful versions of that r&b song that used to play at middle school dances: "girl i know that you felt it but you know i can't help it... you're making it hard for me..." and their voices bounce off the walls of skyscrapers on telegraph. one shrieks and they all run with their legs at odd angles on top of platform sandals, silly stacks of color surrounded by the gray city, across the street to swarm around a friend.

under the ivied marble arbor of the men's warehouse, an old man squats next to his cap and tin full of singles and change. he's singing a song he'd made up through a patchy gray beard. he looks like the sidewalk: the city camouflage of the unbathed, where stains mimic building shadows, puddles, and spat out gum. he asks me about my night. i'm weak, borderline dizzy, confused, tired, existentially lost, and headed to the bar for a hamburger and comfort. i smile. i don't tell him the truth, to protect him. "it's a beautiful night i say." he sings, "i'm dreee-eeamin'... dreee-eeamin'..."

jay is at the door and devin behind the bar. gianmaria greets me with a smile and a kiss. the count of monte cristo and red wine. red sparkles in the bar and the clacking beat of flamenco dancers practicing upstairs.