Last passenger of the night. Alcoholics and whores, my fellow travelers in dog hours. Money that smells like body sweat of a gypsy woman and is moist like masturbation tissue. The thought of murdering her whizzes by my head, like a bullet, and drowns somewhere in the dark lake. Tomorrow, I’ll fast and at sunset, will break my fast with your naked body, and before your husband comes home, I’ll hide in the heroin kind of serenity of my taxi, again.
Chicago – Summer 2014