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He had a mind like an orange, sweetened blue with the prevalence of solitude and the covert loving of midnight-heroes. He loved a boy from Romania who fell gracefully between sparkling and tedious, who did well in school with memorizing, who crowned himself a sensation, whose father was a doctor with a cinnamon colored Peugeot and a fragile sense of humor. Before long they grew into one another's frowns and nights and starry, naked, illuminated, fifty records screaming at once. They swept their opiate intelligence into little boxes one Sunday and buried them on a rooftop lit by wet eyes and matches. The shadows from the tombstones lifted the moon and its twinkling disciples with tiny arms and they would always watch, stupefied. They slowed down, with poverty seeping through the mortar, martyr vibrations and aches in their chests. Then they became too haggard for their little sheet house. Their nights, the porous hours between sun's set and rise, became dead mad, dead poems, dead eyes, dead conversations coming out of the telephone receiver with teeth and vigor. Their shadows started talking gibberish, their whispers starting growing frowns, and they rattled into hollow trees and book spines.