Can I ask you something, sir?
"Sir"?
What's it like? After?
After...?
This misery ends?
Hell or heaven?
Like San Francisco.
A city! Good! I was worried... it'd be a garden. I hate that shit.
Mmmm. Big city. Overgrown with weeds, but flowering weeds. On every corner a wrecking crew and something new and crooked going up catty corner to that. Windows missing in every edifice like broken teeth, gritty wind, and a gray high sky full of ravens.
Isaiah.
Prophet birds, Roy. Piles of trash, but lapidary like rubies and obsidian, and diamond-colored cow spit streamers in the wind. And voting booths. And everyone in Balenciaga gowns with red corsages, and big dance palaces full of music and lights and racial impurity and gender confusion. And all the deities are creole, mulatto, brown as the mouths of rivers. Race, taste and history finally overcome. And you ain't there.
And Heaven?
That was Heaven, Roy.
The **** it was!
