Martin in the hotel. He tells me I am the ugliest man he has ever met. I tell him my transformation isn’t finished yet. My belongings in a cardboard box. We stop for lunch. Martin falls upon me with great excitement. He is a tall man. He sits in a deep straw armchair … beside a log fire. He belongs to the hungry people. He tells me he doesn’t care about anything. He wears a fur cap. He has black eyes … black hair. Martin has shapeless hair. He does terrible things to me. The doors shut. He is not one of the good ones. He has a satin handkerchief. I do not deserve this. Martin is a tall man … he is full of good alloy. He has blonde hair. Martin advises me that I need to implement stringent measures to improve myself … to engage with positive directives to overcome my unusual qualities. Martin tells me that I am an insufferable young person … this seems about right. He has very white teeth. We eat a decent meal of waffle fries and cheeseburger. We share some affectionate moments. The soft gleam from the electric light. Martin is a splendid mimic on what constitutes a good fuck. He bathes me in hot water. TV cameras and tape machines hidden throughout the apartment. Horrible months full of horrible moments. My chipped teeth and rough flesh. Beautiful people consumed by the big machine. Martin in a musty room. I wear my house coat. Pepsi-Cola from the convenience store. I wear woollen pants. Martin’s legs blown apart … small pieces of flesh … an awful silence. A meteorite shower over Morningside Heights. Beautiful Martin with large muscles and shiny hair. Terrible things will happen to him. I wear a white uniform. I stand in the reception room. There is a long corridor. I am in Phoenix at the corner of Washington Street and Central Avenue. Early afternoon sunshine against a drug store window. It is the summer months … a shady side porch. I am wearing patent-leather shoes. Cruel words spoken in a public place … a shady thoroughfare. I drink brandy again. Martin has a solid body. The thunderstorms returns. Martin says uncomplimentary things to me. The stark flesh of Martin. Martin has a handsome face. I am eighteen. Nothing is charming. Skin eruptions on my face. Martin is a handsome man. Martin with a gentle voice … my face pushed into the washtub. It is broad daylight … the whole town covered in oily rain. Martin has a tragic eye … tears. The final cry within our public appearance. Martin raises some important points. A cigar stub in the ashtray. The transparent folds of Martin’s skin. Martin takes long strides toward me. He is an only child. He says angry words. He has a slight smile. Martin is a handsome man. I ask him if he has any spare money. He does not. Martin has tiny fists. He is having a rough time … a severe illness. Martin makes ferocious gestures. He hurls stones at passing cars. Martin has a certain strange fascination with incurable diseases. Martin has handsome eyes. Martin works long hours. He tells me I have sorrowful eyes. We fuck inside some magnificent house.