<blockquote><p><strong>I'M SO TIRED, SHEEP ARE COUNTING ME<br /></strong>this is awful i am so sorry<br /><br /><strong>NO MORE STRUGGLE, NO MORE ENERGY<br /></strong>The roof was slathered with linoleum and pressed tin, painted over twice. It was like a coating on the tongue and teeth and roof of a mouth--like cottonmouth. Attrius took the offered chillum, hummed a low syllable of thanks through the ignition before taking a long hit. The smoke poured out through his teeth, glinting jagged in a grin. Something else dawned. He felt it like a headlight's beam turning to enclose him. Feeling greedy, he took another before passing the piece back to Sage. <strong>"This <em>is</em> good shit," </strong>he muttered, somewhere between a laugh and a bark.</p><p><strong>"Your spit tastes like moss on a rock."</strong> He spoke the sentence twice. In the first rendition, the words emerged thick, deliberate, tongue-mashed. The second was a lilting echo of the first, the line now a song of admonition, a beguilement. He looked out at the crumpled waterfront: garbage scows, city scrapyards, the gray clotted sky still clinging to the boats. The rain was coming in. He moved to the roof exit's side, a brick mass thrusting up behind them--a thirteen-by-nine-foot space of clear brick--and dug in his boot for Al Nujcy, a magic marker next to his bootknife composed of a glass bottle stoppered with a fat wick of felt. Purple-black ink sloshed inside the screwtop bottle, staining the glass in curtains of color. He drew out a safety pin and stuck it in a dozen places until the ink bled so freely it stained the scarred skin on his palms. His arm moved in studied arcs: <em>TLAAG</em>. The letters dripped and stunk thrillingly.<br /><br /><strong>"C'mere,"</strong> he said, his back against the freshly-tagged wall, hidden from the oncoming sheets of rain by a two-foot overhang. His voice was rough with smoke, humid and thick with something else he couldn't name. <strong>"C'mere, Sage--yer gonna get wet."</strong> Five seconds, six--then he was laughing at his own unintended double-entendre. <strong>"Saw that shit on ya. Can't hide paint with a coat like that. Y'wanna tag up?"</strong> he asked, offering her Al Nujcy. </p></blockquote>
