Polychroma Girl
an excerpt

"Not now, Peter. Don't rush genius." I make a few more adjustments before snapping a series of five pictures, one after another after another. The poor fuck on the floor smells like piss, vomit, and wet garbage. "This is art, Peter, even if you don't think so." I turn to him and grin, shoving my camera haphazardly into my messenger bag. I turn and walk out of the alley, leaving the fetid bum behind, rubbing my cold hands together before shoving them into my coat pockets. I can hear Peter's footsteps behind me, crunching on the ground. They're nice shoes. I know this because I know Peter's a stock trader, and stock traders, in my expert experience, make enough money to have penchants for expensive shoes, suits, and booze-- The holy trinity of bourgoise America.

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I polish what salvia is left in the bowl off. Just like always. Low on cash this month, so I have to squeeze as much as I can out of this boring legal shitweed drug. I lay back, waving my hand in front of my face, waiting for something to happen, and it starts to feel like it's not my hand. That's when I realize I'm not in my room anymore. I'm not in my city anymore. I'm floating, and the stars are my guides to the infinite universe and it's beautiful, beautiful like the skin of a baby; like an eagle in the summer indigo sky; like a supernova from the tallest mountains on Earth. It's a tantric pleasure like touching someone's soft skin at the small of their back or on the gentle curve of a stomach, or the best double blowjob you've ever received. And then I realize that I'm laughing, laughing so hard at a joke nobody told, and my head feels like a balloon, slowly slowly deflating until there's nothing left and I'm left in a cold sweat on my dirty linoleum kitchen floor.