SETTING

A daybed lays open and frosted with yellowed sheets and two lumps of pillows that Knife had punched and plumped into unrecognizable similes of women because he was most lonely at night.

Matching yellowed sheets hung at the window, held to one side by a wire hanger to let pass the soft breath of San Francisco sea breeze. The floor was an olive-gray shag that had ironed itself flat through the years and the tenants.

A typewriter filled the top of a small wooden desk. Leaning into a corner stood his guitar.

There was a suitcase that served as a closet and that was all that there was.