Rémi calls our attention to the metalline structures we meander past; on our left, he yells, our lord and master, the supreme lyricist (a feeble man, he adds, with an unfortunately weak constitution); and on our right, he shouts, the patron saint of incarceration (alas, the championing of schizophrenia died with her, he says).

And here, Rémi trumpets, reclining before us:


Serenity, appeased and satisfied, eternally lingering in the moment after ecstasy; how apt, Rémi muses, how familiar.

The landmarks accumulate, and finally, he becomes cognizant of our coordinates: we are but a few blocks from my home, he tells me, and it seems, to our inebriated selves, a fitting place to conclude the infernal afternoon.