My Saturday Night. My Saturday Night Is

It Drains The Bars And Cafes After Hours, Concentrates The Wicked And The Guilty Along Its Chipped Formica Counter, And Thrums With The Gossip Of Criminals, Policemen, Shtarkers,and Schlemiels, Whores And Night Owls ... Three Or Four Floaters, Solitaries, And Drunks Between Benders Lean Against The Sparkly Resin Counter, Sucking The Tea From Their Shtekelehs And Working The Calulations Of Their Next Big Mistake.

The Whole House Seemed To Exhale A Melancholy Breath Of Emptiness

I Feel That In The Past, My Style Has Shown Itself To Be Capable Of Handling Dark And Light In The Same Paragraph, Or Even In The Same Sentence. That's Something I Almost Take For Granted. I Think It Was More A Concern To Get The Details Right And Persuasively Recreate The World I Was Trying To Write About.

... And Because It Was A Drunken Perception, It Was Perfect, Entire, And Lasted About Half A Second.

The Rest Of Sitka's Homicides Are So-called Crimes Of Passion, Which Is A Shorthand Way Of Expressing The Mathematical Product Of Alcohol And Firearms.