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smell. A few of the creeps smoke cigarettes. One half of the buildings lining the street're a red brick wall. Mostly the bums don't move or they move as little as they have to.
    How is this City of Cities divided?
    This new holy city is a reality not only without religion but also without anything to want or seek for: without anything. The city whose first characteristic is it gives nothing, breakdown, and so its inhabitants individuals, no its communities, have to make everything for themselves.
    As taught in school, Petersburg has five parts: its main part is the Nevsky Prospect.
    St Petersburg is actually the Nevsky Prospect.
    The Nevsky Prospect's an island joined by bridges once on
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    its northern tip, twice on its southern, and once at its eastern edge to the rest of Petersburg. Though Petersburg is the capital of the USSR, most Russians who don't live in Petersburg hate and fear the Petersburgians: they think they're murderers, dope addicts, and perverted by fame.
    Is there such a thing here as true love: that violence that's absolutely right?
    Lamplights hang over the edges of the park running through the vertical center of the Nevsky Prospect, from its beginning at St Isaac's, about fifty blocks north, to its black section in the depth of the seventeenth line. The geographical divisions are actually racial: ghettoes, each one on the whole about nine to sixteen blocks large, don't mingle. This past year the ghettoes're beginning to physically cross cause the rich're now trying and will take over this whole city by buying all of its real estate.
    The islands especially Vasilyevsky Island are the drug oases. The hooker centers're the Millionaya, again Vasilyevsky Island (pimps always get their puppets hooked), the large black bridge across the Neva, and the Winter Canal. The languages are less than 50% Russian, then, (heard less often in this order), Spanish, French, and German. Petersburg isn't Russian: it's a country on its own. Since it has no legal or financial national status; it's an impossibility, an impossible home; it's tenuous, paranoid. Its definitions and language're quantum theory, Zen, and the nihilism found before the Russian Revolution.
    Squares quadrilaterals concatenations of imaginations who lack other necessary sensualities. The flesh which touches flesh has to resemble Martian green gook. City of simultaneous inner and outer space where each day a new human disease appears, whose inhabitants, like rats, through sickness remain alive and work. Who can tell me I'm too sick to be alive? My sickness is life. You, my city, romanticism of no possible belief:
    In Peter one morning, the female weight-lifter fell out of her loft-bed. It was a beautiful day, late in September. Larks were singing and drops of sunlight were filtering through the navy blue Levelors (through the clouds through the pollution through the surrounding buildings' walls) which she hadn't
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    opened since she bought them cause she didn't want to see junkies shooting up.
    A newspaper below her fallen body:
    Meanwhile, in the alleyways, Dear Peter,
    I can't stand living without you. I hate this day-after-day constant waiting-for-you: you're not here: all my hours spent in longing for what's not here. I won't stand for living like this. Then I realize I'm falling in love with you. There's no one to turn to: again and again I realize I have only myself.
    Sixteen hours until I see you again. 123456789 10 11 12 13 14 15 16. I can count 16, but you'll probably not want to see me. If I see you, I'll want you. If I don't see you, I'll die. I'm going nuts. I don't care about this writing. I just want time. I can get rid of this night by closing up my eyes with work, brain calculations, dumbie-making TV: you have leapt into my arms, madness: I'll wait for you forever if you'll only come to me, for there's no time until I see you. Love makes time and life. I must be blind: you're poor. Your life is shambles. The more you want something, the