Studio 5, The Stars

Every evening during the summer at Vermilion Sands the insane poems of my beautiful neighbor drifted across the desert to me from Studio 5, The Stars, the broken skeins of colored tape unravelling in the sand like the threads of a dismembered web. All night they would flutter around the buttresses below the terrace, entwining themselves through the balcony railings, and by morning, before I swept them away, they would hang across the south face of the villa like a vivid cerise bougainvillaea.