Nipples

Late mid-December, sleepless, out a-prowl, scotching a 12 year Glenmorangie, reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, trying to ignore the unholy bat-wing flap, that buzzing terror that is floating above The Season (a fucked term for the interim between two gluttonous erstwhile-holy days), above my head and the lampshade, up in the midnight clouds over a Christmas-smashed Dallas that is drunk on presents and playing with its twin nipples of Northpark and the Galleria.

But after all, it's only midnight.