Pavement keeps its heat long after the sun goes down. In the cool night, it keeps my feverish body warm. My glasses begin to fog as I lie in the middle of the cul de sac, as far from the streetlamp's reach as possible. Its arm is long, though, and the night offers me no place to hide. Just this black hole, this windless vacuum, where an artificial yellow glow colors everything false. Everything feels thin and vapid. Like a shot of 151 flaming under a glass, the moment is wildly, rapidly turning to nothing but a heavy stench of intoxicating air full of all the things everyone thinks and feels but no one will say or do anything about.