Climbs back up from the platform, stairs are filthy here too, must be a punishment. Hip slams hard into the metal arm of the turnstile. Sound is far away. All around her strange lamps burn brightly and human tongues press the night. Weekends Weekends are long and white.
Snow drifts against the door.
Distant threads from the piano downstairs. Deneuve washes her glassware. In the hotel room it is dusk, a girl turns, I have to confess something. This is mental. Two parallel red lines of different lengths inch forward, not touching.