There’s blood on the sidewalk and flashes of your smile in the windows of all the stores that flow up and down the strip. In my pocket, there’s a lock of your hair, and when I take it out and breathe you in, the ground shakes and the buildings roll like marbles or those boulders Sisyphus had to push up that mountain because he was damned and there was nothing else he could do. But don’t you reckon deep down he loved it? Don’t you think that every time he stood there seeing that boulder slip away, he felt a sick little thrill all the same? When you stick your fingers in and clench your teeth as those wild horses rush along the length of your spine, I’m running through crowds of people trying so hard to keep myself from losing control. As you kick your legs and squeeze tight your eyes, I’m scratching my face and yelling at the sky because I’m alive and mad, and I’ll have it no other way. Pushing through the hordes of scum until I get to yours, you’re lying there out of breath with your hair matted against your forehead. Kneeling down by your side, I grab your hand and bring it to my nose and what I smell makes me twitch and squint and feel so dizzy so much so that words escape me. The more this thing goes on, the harder it is telling the two of you apart. The more my obsessions take hold, the trickier it becomes figuring out which one of you is the woman I love, and which is the one I made up just to hurt myself with.