It's funny how it all happens, isn't it? One night he is railing amphetamines, alone, because he can't perk up by himself. The next night he is in his friend's bed, curled in a four-dimensional blanket of coloured tulle confetti.
He doesn't call anyone by their proper name because he believes that words are for meaning - meaning which names are without. When he thinks of tonight it's all about sweat and Camel cigarettes, and the coarse fabric in which he and his friend were webbed together.
And the sound of a riot stampeding through his house's halls, but it's merely another Thursday night party, because college students make strange neighbours.
When he walks on home, the snow has frozen hard enough that he can walk right on top of it, flying thirty-six inches above the earth. It's all blue and brisk and dry like her kiss, an unstable kiss, and it's funny how that all happened, and how it all happens.