Your days are an illusion Buenos Aires. A dream.
In reality, the sunlight is still on its way, packed in one of those huge container ships carrying everything over from Europe.
Your nights are enjoying the attention, clearly.
Just like right after midnight, when the doors open at Recoleta cemetery and the line, curling all the way back to Adam and Eve, starts moving — that is if the doorman lets them in (well, admit it, we all get dressed for Peter), and disco lazer lights start shooting from the statues' obsidian eyes, twenty one tonnes of glitter dropped on a grave's dance floor, a white horse stirring ash stardust, speakers blasting Please Make Me Dance, yeah life is a misery everyone must dance alone, while angel terrorists wearing Balenciaga gowns with red corsages and black garbage bag wings blow up rainbow streamers, fresh blood on the stonewalls, dangling Christmas peacock balls everywhere, and at the top of the tallest tree the most stunning drag queen this world has ever seen — eight and a half meters tall, dressed in amethyst mist and gold sparkling urine frozen great black waves down to the middle of her shoulders downcast lashes flames and floating ruby cruise lips on her nightswimming face.
Her broadcast voice echoes from Challenger Deep, and everyone stands still, holding silence on the rocks, listening:
