V

"Flicker, flicker, the lights always flicker."

"Never, never, shall I sing, never."

"OK, OK, my lovely sweet babe, OK."

A big flashing neon sign reading "WHAT THE HELL?" flickered in Naublus' mind. Consequently, he veiled his posied scalp so that the radiation didn't reach the outside world. You see, the outside world is plotting against him. He never knows when they'll pull his big toe out or make his eyeball into jewelry. Oh, how he feared the use of his body parts! Of course, the material with which he covered them was newspaper, old, yellowed newspaper. On his feet, a pristine Caribbean beach with cannibals. On his head, a 95-year-old Holocaust survivor doing aerobics in a pink sports bra. (Naublus loved sports bras -- he stole one three years before, and he's never taken it off since). On his left hand, an advertisement for men's shaving razors. On his right, Christy Brinkley advertising the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Naublus was proud of his attire. He thought it a testament to his creativity and eclectic taste in aesthetics. Naublus remembered the temple frescoes of his native land. The forests seemed to extend their arms to embrace him. The dizzying patterns reminded him of his mother, and the shiny turquoises, burgundies, and terra cotas matched the sprightly movement of his feet.

Naublus liked to spin in place. Often, in his corner of the SMARTA station, he would spin uncontrollably constantly yelling, "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" to passers-by. The passengers thought him a mentally-ill man from the third century. Naublus kept on spinning regardless. "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" As he spun, always with his left foot planted, he never got dizzy and flailed his arms up and down.

It was 5:45 p.m. Rush hour. The swarm of squirrels invaded Naublus' station, nobody looking to the side, everybody focused on the prize -- where they needed to be next. It was quite a prize, but Naublus didn't get that. Like a solo autumn leaf, a twenty-something year-old girl skipped to Naublus' corner, grabbing his hands to strike a waltz pose. She joined him in his spinning. She sang, dazed, "It's love! It's love! It's love! It's love!" She filled the half-beat that Naublus "wassup's" left blank.

"WHAT THE HELL?" Naublus mind flickered, as street lights do in the apocalypse. This girl, naive as a moth, crushed his solitude, stained it, made it bleed. It was a new life for Naublus. People could in fact exist.

Snazy and Naublus spun until the end of time.