Taxi Cab Light spilled onto the world, a bucket of yellow paint spilled on a black Dali.

Rain drummed on the top of the car. Gently, the mind numbs. We drove slowly, my window down. The rain came down perfectly. Perpendicular, wind nonexistent. The rain was soothing for the ears. Placid, thunder echoes. The checker patterned car came to a gentle stop along the curb. The driver put his hand on the passenger seat and turned to us, “This it for you guys?” He nodded towards the stoop outside. Rue de Aribou, building number 35, black iron railings, five small steps, cement sidewalk. The city. He handed me a James, an Abraham, and foretold “Andrew is always easy to deal with when it is five.” The doors unlocked. My friend and I exited. The world is black and white. The vacant sign spilled into the surrounding, a yellow drop of paint on a Miro. It stood out in the bleak landscape. EMPTY. We stood on the stoop and I fumbled for my key. It hung loose on my keychain. Dull. My friend sat against the railing. I insert the key and turn. I look at my friend. He is decaying fast. Bones. Ash. He is gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I turned the key back and pull it out. My friend stands up and goes inside. He is gone. I am alone. My bags are still in the car. The car is old. It is rusted. The roof has collapsed, and the tires rotted. The trunk is whole. I opened it. My bag falls through a hole in the floor. I leaned over, reaching for the bag. It disappears. The trunk shuts. I opened it. My bag falls through a hole in the floor. The license plate is askew. DXM. I shut the trunk. I walked to the driver door, I opened the door. The handle pops off, yellow paint bleeds from the gaping holes, microscopic dots on a Magritte. I opened the door, my bag was in the drivers lap. Bones. Ash. He is gone. I grabbed my bag and he grabbed me,

“Andrew is always easy to deal with when it is five.” My watch spins rapidly. Five, seven, twelve, five, five. He is decaying fast. Bones. Ash. He is gone. I am alone. I was on the stoop, bag in hand. The flowerbox nearby sprouted seven flowers. Today is Monday. The driver stepped out. He is pointing a fort 12 at me. He fired twice. My friend stands up. The bullet hit him. He is decaying fast. Bones. Ash. He is gone. The bullet clinks down five steps. The other bullet enters me. I am decaying fast. Bones. Ash. The bullet clinks down five steps. They are alone. The driver gets back in to the car. He turns on the headlights, a bucket of paint spills. “This it for you guys?” He nodded to the stoop outside. Aribou Street, numero del edificio 35, barandillas hierras negras, cinco escaleras pequenas, acera cemento. The city. My friend and I exited. Paint drips upwards from the roof of the car. EMPTY. I turned the key in the lock. My friend sits down. There is a flowerbox filled with ash nearby. Five flowers stand, two have wilted. Today is Wednesday. There are two bullets on the ground, facing the car. The driver gets out of the car. My watch spun rapidly. Five, seven, twelve, five, five. He fires twice. The fort 12 is EMPTY. The bullet hit him. He grabs the door handle, he collapses to the ground. The handle pops off. The other bullet makes a hole in the floor. My bag fell through the floor. Yellow paint bleeds from the gaping holes. My friend stands up, “Andrew is always easy to deal with when it is five.” My bags are still in the car. I open the trunk, I grab my bag. The driver grabs me, “This it for you guys?” He is decaying fast. Bones. Ash. He is gone. A bullet sits idly. I am on the stoop. The flowerbox nearby sprouted, it has seven flowers in it. Today is Monday. I turned the key back. I pulled it out. My friend stands up, I go inside. I am gone. He is alone. He is decaying fast.