by Peter Cherches
The green night, the rigid green night, where lies are the closest thing to murmurs of affection. The blue night, the tiny blue night, where nothing succeeds like a hole in the head. The red night, the oily red night, where lepers and eunuchs sing doo-wop on the streetcorners of your eyes. The violet night, the whining violet night, where you kill me without regret. The black night, the simple black night, where you kill me with remorse. That's my favorite night of all.
Peter Cherches, whose full catalog is here, blogs about food and travel here.