I ran, I loped through night streets. I jumped over cars. I smelled something. Coffee. Cinnamon. I went to investigate. A kitchen. A girl dressed in black. She screamed. I liked it. The others left. The place was empty. The spotlight still burned. I took my place. I said my poem. The empty room resounded. The walls heard my words. They were disgusted.

I ate a cinnamon roll. I was disgusted. I ran outside. In the street, another girl. The one with yellow hair tinged with green. She was known to me. She walked. I followed. She thought. She skulked in shadow.

She arrived at her house. I lurked. She went in. I went away. Back to the place of the poem. I said my poem again.

The cream for the coffee curdled. The cinnamon rolls turned moldy.

I said my poem again. The spotlight turned a sickly brownish-green.

I left the place. I returned to the streets and the moon.

I had a nice time.