Miami was a most exhausted, sex-filled backdrop, even for us, with its fluorescent, pulsating ceilings
and young, young girls in tartan to the brusque cut of their asses and kittenish knee-socks.

This is another hotel we have no respect for, using a tablecloth as a towel, Daniela screaming in absolution from the shower.
Can we pack up like shiny-new and find a decent grilled cheese? An indie record store?

We can. And Art Deco becomes the things you whispered to me; the small, silver locket answers I gave,
sitting upright on the fold-out couch,
grasping to name the color that desire takes when you've been drunk and seen too much and dawn is approaching to pillage your hedonism.

Miami is medicine and dense air.

Miami rocks back on its heels and cannot find us anywhere.

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