She is comfortable on a bar stool that

was as leathery as the night dragging on her

nerves, and proceeds to order Baijiu from the

bartender thinking the red giants that were her ancestors

would twinkle and breathe in a thousand

years of culture, a main sequence of events

that led to her listening to Jazz on a metal stool

in the first place. Her vape is filled with cherries

and longing for uncertainty, an icy metal rocket

where she daydreams in time dilation, oblivious

to neon signs and looming asian flush, the

heat inherited from her heritage in the heavens,

built for low tolerance, high cholesterol and

a passionate sigh for teasing streetlamps. The

music plays, bass guitar strings stolen from a

Guzheng, and she weeps like the mist on a

mountain road to enlightenment.