People are utterly filthy. Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****, and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a ***** on Seventh. Oh, tell me about it. I saw a dead person once. Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis-- filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul until my own hands grow disheveled in the hue of sobbing women. Women are always sobbing. My good friend with fishnet tights cries and cries when the bottle breaks and glass becomes embedded in those brown fingertips of hers. What is worse? The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White dripping from a needle three years defective, or the scent of sobbing women soaked lily-livered in sweat. With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim: I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting away with the mist of dawn, then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in white wind from the heavens and exhale clouds coated thick in a thousand vile songs.