my city in the morning, still heavy with night. the zombies are quiet. the prostitutes on the corner of west grand and san pablo look like little girls. yesterday's garbage is strewn across the cracked asphalt: brown bags stained with grease, plastic wrap, candy wrappers, whiskey bottle, wig. the sidewalks are restless with sleepers, but stay cool and gray and silent under the fog. it isn't yet six and oakland has the aspect of an abandoned theme park — abruptly evacuated, maybe.



this kind of decision had become more frequent, but the scope had expanded and taken on a reckless grandeur. she packed her bag with the cool detachment of an undertaker and then called a cab, tapping her foot against the mattress.