the cocaine sticks, and the razor blades have condensation on them. The dark bars hide excess and the joy of a neat bourbon, but the occasional cigarette smoker briefly breaks the curiosity with wails of an incomprehensible language. The hair on the gypsy girls downstairs naturally falls into Jatayein coils that remind you of your crazy girlfriend from college that lives somewhere on the island. Buildings are dark and the lighted windows hold laughter and loud voices. Somewhere on the island a baby is being created.
