Traces of red can be seen all over the place, from the necklace I wear to the forbidden sign,
from that funny, extremely short skirt a dark-haired girl wears to the lighter on a nearby table,
the wealthy girl wearing Bonnard table-clothing,
ACK on a lousy t-shirt and, as anyone else could have noticed, several samples of Marlboro cigarettes.
The color red is as good as anywhere, walking down the street, reflecting on a metal frame. Signs
indicating the don't do this the don't do that.
It emerges from the argument at a table nearby. It comes from a nearby smile and from the little screen unfolded on parts of her body,
from the voice of the fat man,
from the words he shouts in some odd machinerie, from the melancholy of the girl
back to earth with a surprisingly elegant gesture, unable though to get that Weltschmerz from her gaze.
There she sat, I remember, dressed in flames as a garden rose.
Not to mention the idiot and the drunk and a faint smell of slavery.