The capital of Hell is hot. Brooklyn, that dirty brother, with searchlights beaming over from Manhattan skyscrapers onto the carking fags of Metropolitan Avenue - seething caliginous desires with French haircuts and tight jeans. Everyone is smoking pot and Camels and drinking beer and condensation from cold glasses. These boys are mendacious. They are kleptomaniacs. Instruction booklets. I open random pages. Blank. The heat is resolute. July hits the streets and everything is rotting like the garbage bags outside my window. The humidity curls my Jew-hair and dampens my folds. This summer is thick and heavy. I am choking in this room, drowning in my sweat and self-pity. He must be there. Shining in sweat - the bar lights swimming on him, waiting to talk about the cosmos, or at least willing to go reeling through them.