I remember the light of the sun shining straight lines of rays through the hollowed-out space above the street-and the dark shadow in the bulky concrete shafts of bleh that rose to the side. I also remember pain. Total pain in my fucking heart and mind. Total static.... It was the end. Manhattan was meant to go cheesecloth and me butter-like the oil of eternity through the laugh track of a commercial in outer space where a mop dances with Fred Astaire and he accidentally drops a sardine off his cracker and says, "Oh dear, summer plums, I have spilled my hors d'oeuvres." Then a bunch of spiders crawl from the subway and he blasts them with his donut lazer. Ah shit. READ MORE