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She walked on, comforted by the surf, by the one perpetual moment of beach-time, the now-and-always of it.
About the only thing to like about Florida was drugs, which were easy to come by and cheap and mostly industrial strength. Sometimes she imagined the bleach smell was the smell of a million dope labs cooking some unthinkable cocktail, all those molecules thrashing their kinky little tails, hot for destiny and the street.
“Have you ever considered the relationship of clinical paranoia to the phenomenon of religious conversion?”
The world hadn’t ever had so many moving parts or so few labels.
