“I’m carrying all my weight tonight,” he mumbled to himself.

Trudging up and down the boulevards he haunted the space between the neon patches of dandelion fire and quicksand marble archways.

With a garbage can moan and a 10 dollar suit he had watched it all slip away.

Some prey should not elude him.

He was a machine, with a gummed up cerebellum and a grudge against one eyed watchmakers who could not set his dials.

A sky-born signal, the stars had faded, replaced by an intricate pattern of static haze winding through the stratosphere.

He could see patterns, wincing through the smog and sparks of broken telephone poles and minutes after each reading he felt very clear about things.

The feeling was fleeting, like foxtails whipped up in a dust devil.