There is an old cigar shop on the edge of Cedar Hill Park with boarded windows and doors on the side near the crest. The passersby complain about the eyesore, though the house is unsure of how they or it know about the old cigar shop without signage. Inside the house, the people’s furniture and ...

Fingertips of day are losing their grip. Pink horizons darken the sound of a saxophone fades. Stars poke through the black curtain like pinholes in the fabric of time, the moon hovers benign and besmirched its surface pocked and shaded.   Silence is golden.   But there will be no riches tonight screeching interrupts my ...