Then you’d think of heaven where there’s peace, away from here and you’d go some place unreal where everybody goes after something happens, set up in the air, safe, a room in a hotel. A brass bed, military hair brushes, a couple of coats, trousers, maybe a dress on a chair or draped on the floor. This room is not on earth, feel the air, warm like heaven and far away. This is a place where marriage nights are kept and sometimes here you say, Hello to a neat girl with you and sometimes she laughs because she thinks it’s funny to be sitting here for no reason at all, except perhaps, she likes you daddy. Maybe this isn’t heaven but near to something like it, more like love coming up in elevators and nothing to think about, except, O God, you love her now and it makes no difference if it isn’t spring. All seasons are warm in the warm air and the brass bed is always there. If you’ve done something and the cops get you afterwards, you can’t remember the place again, away from cops and streets— it’s all unreal— the warm air, a dream that couldn’t save you now.
