Howie Good

H o w i e  G o o d

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Howie

Pastiche

Because it's 2:30 a.m., I think you’ll understand when I tell you no one knows what this is, the tooth of an obscure Catholic saint or the long-sought Higgs boson, so important I couldn’t take it back. Rapists walk around with their dicks hanging out, and the hard-breathing of traffic on Third Avenue almost scares me. I'm really tired. Whenever a dancer’s body touches the floor, a damp patch remains, chin in hand, eyes like inhabited seashells.