The thing I want to say about evening is that it lasts a long time. And that I’m tired and it’s been a long day.

You smell like seaweed and fresh fish, arrayed near a tall, big glass of Kirin, golden, light.

Your ears flap out. You have a large smile and a golden-haired laugh, eyes that sparkle, a booty that pops and pouty lips.

The day goes down green, comes up bleached white. Incongruent lines, black, then grey, then impossible silver, drift forward and back in a sea of haze and stupidity. A grace, not felt, a truth, not written down, a day, not lived.