Sheinberg getting all her National Socialist/Skinhead-type tattoos removed. Some other guy getting an washing machine symbol taken off via laser. Some other guy asking about getting a Suduko put on his thigh as new work. What a bunch of arseholes! They want to build up or burrow underground, they got some problem with being street level. They continue whispering to the microphones until eyes slip shut at the same moment as mine. My poor eyesight, away from the door, Sheinberg wearing and lie upon the blanket in flat y-fronts, just unpegged from the line. The taxi driver disappears. Sheinberg is locked in here, inside the cupboard, with these faecal things. Pretty girls begin begging. Sheinberg is one of them. She pleads almost, to the ribs ripped off her. “Lies!” the crowd bellows. All garlic and pepper lime, bad breath dipping from their mouths. Suddenly a shivaree, a newlywed couple, neighbours with pots and pans, relentless banging. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery states something that Sheinberg says in code.
VERY NIGHT, the dining room chairs go unused. I prefer to eat perched up on the countertops with my toes dangling a few feet from the cool-borderline-cold ceramic tile of the kitchen floor. By eat I of course mean drink, because the dinner of the last few nights has consisted of whatever bottle of wine I find above the fridge, sitting enticingly higher than my roost, begging to be plucked and sucked and drunk. 
