H-E knew the layers of time and space interlacing and intersecting Mannahattas, including the red tape. She knew how much red tape had to be made velvet when she’d followed the red carpet past the blue velvet– and over the rainbow. How, when she’d started spending the night at 9 East 71st Street, on satin sheets, it had been a treat.

A delicate treat. If there had been internet then, she would have tweeted of this treat. She would have quoted Walt Whitman, interlaced and intersecting Oscar Wilde, and would have made a Wilde Whitman of the evening. She would have made a true man of both, and served them one of their favorites, a capote. A swiss chocolate, or a mint, on the pillow, the satin pillow, provided for the comfort of her neck. The pillow itself would be filled with eider down. Eider!

Eider that or something else.

It could have been PVC, depending on what was for sale when the pillows were being deconstructed.

9 East 71st Street was sandwiched in on a thronging “street”– hopefully it is. It probably isn’t a baloney sandwich, though. It is a cucumber sandwich, salted, veneered, a Vermeer, such as Oscar munched on, while avoiding washing it down with absinthe. Another thronging street was down below, Wall Street. There were, not so much in 2025, hot dog stands on the streets and avenues, and little satin dispensers of aluminum, no– stainless steel — some of them containing sauerkraut. Some of them with mustard, diced onions, ketchup, catsup, though H-E had never seen a cat sup on catsup. Or cat nip.

H-E has picked up a precious bundle on a heated sidewalk just outside of 9 East 71st Street. In her mind’s eye, which was astigmatico stigmata of the Model T, first trillionaire ever, she thinks of UNESCO.

UNESCO has tons of well-funded programs to care for, with CARE packages, precious bundles trying to make it through the night on city grates, of late, but now on heated sidewalks, and though H-E experiences the bundle of joy as a weather balloon, lifting her aloft, she does know it will become a burden, especially when the bundle hits puberty. At that point, the bundle of joy will become obnoxious, and a “pill”. Not a Valium pill, either. Or an ozone, or a “soma” or a prozac, and H-E doesn’t want 9 East 71st Street because the folks who dwell, or tarry, or tipple there, hit puberty– and kept hitting puberty, over and over and over.

And over.