Evening. Prostitutes lick their lips. I lick mine looking at them on the sly, pretending that I'm not interested. All I have is 60 cents in my pocket – and that's it. And, for some reason, I fancy that I'm an ancient Egyptian. And I'm drawn by the blue night's abyss, mesmerized, my inflamed eyes glued to the prostitutes – I feel them over with my eyes, feel their legs, follow their blue tongues. It follows then that I love rot and decay. Yes, that's what follows.

Back home, I'm excited. I'm going to get rid of my old pants, the ones I brought with me from Russia – fuck 'em. At least I'm busy with something.