Heed tetchy static, roving around McArthur. I can feel the steady impulse breed flaxen flumine. Songs tumble notes as ladies sing blunt-mouthed tune. You croon with them, mindless of the force that tries to break free past the console. Your voice is analogous to reticence. I hear nothing, feel everything underneath the lazy glow of the sign that says Yield plastered to a decrepit signage past the posh city buoys of Jupiter. Everything comes to a halt in the remote red light district. Somewhere behind those thick walls that enshroud the fumes of tantric body heat, I can feel the ground stop in that disconsolate delineation: morose and encumbered, outnumbered by the cognoscenti that filled the streets unwilling to give us directions to whereabouts we rarely have knowledge of. cigarettes rammed deep within their mouths, masticating the cloud of nicotine as though it were tender meat, I hear the radio go ballistic past the sign now that reads Exit.