Youth devours youth. The clock ticks and he has not imploded as of yet. The tragedy may lie in the lack of tragedy—in that an event has not yet occurred. He feels the isolation choking him. He feels the Marxist sense of isolation, but Marx cannot help him. The voices in his head cannot help him. He is lost.

Time devours time. No clocks tick in this standstill. No hours meet where these lovers were last seen. The death of romance is near—for romance is an illusion, nothing more.

The last time he shot someone, she was with him. They were happy alibis, but nothing was ever mentioned. It is like the murder never occurred, like the body was never found. Could it still be in that desert? In the heat? Are there vultures? Is that a cliché? If so, what would make it less of a cliché? What could make it the completely original story that would transcend all of the recycled story lines that have been written time and time again? Are we trapped in a circle of narratives? One inside the other only to find that the core has been eaten away by the monotonous process of writing? Of creation?