Obscure the late afternoon with a drape. Don't let him follow her latest escape. Or the fanfare of taxis that needlessly played. As a forty watt bulb burns a hole in the shade. Then they got into a passionate fight. Now she's lost in the shadows thrown over at twilight. At the Empire Hotel they first came face to face. Pieces would fall off all over the place. And there in the debris they'd laugh and recline. Tell me my dear are you more or less mine. Then they got into a passionate fight. She says now this isn't love it's what you do in spite of it. And I can't go on with it night after night after night. Camphor and cigarettes perfume the scandal. Now he's counting the hinges and watching the door handle. As he hangs the clothes on the back of the door. Perfectly matching outfits that she wore. Women come quietly and some remain with their pity. But others know the pain of the passion of fight. Though the chance they will win is impossibly slight. He cowers before them so invitingly. And in the long run they'll be chastised and hated. Or walk out frustrated or humiliated. That is the pointless delight of a passionate fight. This isn't love what you do in spite of it. I can't go on night after night after night after night after night after night...