The geometry of drunk as the panhandler approaches the taxicab. The taxi=abc. He comes ‘round the front and sure enough down the side, glancing through the glass. Lines upon lines and grids upon grids. Minutes and seconds and years. Volume. Boundaries. Around the corner and down the side, his progress the happysad answer to everything.

When you're drunk and I mean really drunk if only you could put it into words what you see. It's cruel: The universe holds still for you but you forget the word for tree.