The way cops mill at the edge of a crime event, just inside the yellow tape, as though it were a cocktail party serving donuts. Late in the day, the sun emerges for the first time through a crack in these clouds, illuminating the futon shop with a special but ambiguous symbolism. What I see in your sunglasses is only my own reflection, rounded by the curvature, and behind me the whole of the warehouse parking lot. Watching television obsessively, caught in that long historical moment between the obvious and the unknowable, filled, for no other reason than to relieve our anxiety, with file footage and experts. The quick spicy sauce jumped over the lazy pasta.
Pregnant women trade tips on nausea.
Cemeteries side by side, one per denomination. In what is now a neighborhood in Fremont they used to film westerns, before Hollywood and sound. Crimea river by the old oak tree. To sleep, perchance to cream. Garden in the fog.