December 30, 2001
My head is momentarily full of angels, but I hear the rumble of a V8 engine and the thud-thud-thud of techno music. It's not angels, unless angels have taken to driving black Ford Falcons with rear spoilers. It's the people over the street. The engine and the music stops, and I hear giggling and drunken people loudly telling each other to stop making so much noise. Someone quietly retches in the gutter and two others begin one of those pseudo-profound conversations that only drunks can understand. Someone else can't find the keys to his Honda, and complains pathetically about it.