A pair of chrome shears trimming the thorns from a rose’s stem. Each clean snip confirms the sharpness of the twin blades. Some of the thorns fall on the cool concrete floor. You are surprised by the gratification you derive from such a banal chore, your attention to such indiscernible pleasures, and most of all, by the strength of the aroma emitted by the dying flower. It is very sweet, and like the concrete on your bare feet is cold to the touch. The dropping temperature becomes apparent so you shut the windows through which afternoon air carried citrus groves into your room. In the absence of a breeze, the odor of iron, at first indistinct, has come into full prominence. It’s the smell of blood, and like one of Argento’s guileless giallo heroines, you are startled to realize that the blood is your own.

You awaken with the sun in a honeysuckle bush. Apparently, you passed out with your right hand in a large bag of barbeque Lays, and the left clutching fun-size salt and vinegar Utz. Your hazy mind vaguely recalls trying to make Fig Newton s’mores over the now smoldering bonfire. You hit the bong and go back to sleep.