​Pausing and remembering
A reverie beyond the isle and mountains
Dreaming torturously of that fated day
The one that never came
A coin lost to those emerald fountains
Flights in my mind
Desperate as they now appear to me
Weighed down in doubt and denial
No test, but still a fiery trial
A false ardor which forbade me to see
The visage didn't lie
With crooked eye and blackened tooth
Yet how heavy was the sickness below
That allowed that foul venom to flow
To poison me in my naive youth
The tongue of a silver spike
Twisting truth in plain daylight
Despite some kind word and loving speech
You alluded me in my sleep
But clouded my hopeless sight
Despair encased me
Misery my only companion
Free and feeling when the spirits ran forth
Running dry when came the morn
Wandering alone in a vast canyon
Awakening was abrupt
Far too long a time coming
In that time I stood tall
Holding myself above all
Refusing blows that were shocking or stunning
Away I walked
Afraid if my boldness was wrong
But bold it was not
When harbouring respect and considerate thought
Though it still proved your anger quite bitter once I was gone
So here we sit
Having long since passed this mysterious test
Separated by life and many an hour
Though this expanse appears quite dark in light and form
To otherwise, honestly, I see no reason to attest

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​Darkness binding
A serenade amidst the earth and sky
Out from which I toil and turn
That milk white orb shining into my eye
Foot unto foot, I walk forward
On this nighttime path to ponder and yearn
All the time in the world for me to wonder why
Path unwinding
A sonnet spoken by light unto ground
Walking an after dark saunter
Ever watched by the great black hound
But bathed in pale light still
Safe to veer and vaunter
And into my mind I will share and expound;
These flowers have flourished
From bleeding into breathing
By the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon
These thoughts have been nourished
Far beyond the point of feeding and teething
Pushed upward by a song coming into tune
In this umbratic garden
They weep and cry
Flowers pink as flesh
Though in shadow thin and white
A melancholic creche
Shying away and obscured from sight
And from out my heart comes a prayer
Earnest and heavy and filling the air
Thankful for the sorrow and pain
For without it I have no knowledge
No reason to grow
Nothing to explain
And on this path I will always walk
Where thinking becomes like a palindrome
I purge my heart and begin to forgive
Reading from the soul's unwritten tome
Foot unto foot, I walk forward
On this moonlit path where I will always live
For no matter how far I stray, my destination will forever be home

- Sierra Matz

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​ If there was one thing Jerv learned, it was that no matter what, pack plenty of Cafinite and booze. Working on old robots can tire a guy out. Whether it was from all the shocks or the swearing, he always needed a drink afterwards.
    Edmond would have a drink every now and then, but not when he's working. One of them needed to be crystal clear in the head if they were gonna get a story going.
    They pulled up fifteen yards away from the patrol vehicle they were tailing, getting the bot ready for a little snooping.
    Edmond put out his CigRet and pulled out his D.R.O.I.D.(Data Recorder Online Information Device). He clicked it on and looked over to the neon light that marked the club's territory. Despite the crappy weather, he could still see the sign clearly. It was too bad the video feed on his D.R.O.I.D couldn't focus any better even if he had the best recording software in the star.
    Jerv activated the bot and hooked up a wireless control board to the harmonius machine. Each beep and whir was like drums and trumpets to the two journalists. Both men smiled and turned their attention to the possible story at hand.
    A click on one of the keys and the bot was in motion. Edmond opened the side door to let the rolling crap box out. He never did like machines. Not in his youth, not in his middle aged career, not when he's a broken down asshole close to his nineties.
    Edmond flipped on the video feed from the bot's lens, the picture was better than what he could get with the equipment they had, but it still wasn't perfect. Infrequently the picture would get scratchy and fuzzy, making it just that little bit unreliable for the both of them. All he could hope for was a clear image of something hot enough to get a story or a development.
    Jerv was handling the control board as carefully and as best as he could, but he was fumbling just a little with the controls. Drinking might help him fix up a run down junk box of any variety, but actually handling anything becomes a bigger pain in the ass than necessary.
    Just as Jerv's miracle junker was trying to maneuver up a curb, it bumped into someone walking by. Jerv tensed up, thinking it was one of the detectives in the building. Footsteps could be heard and a shadowy figure could be seen outside where they were hiding. Whoever it was, that person walked right by them and kept on walking.
    Jerv exhaled, not realizing that he was holding his breath. Edmond played it calm, never letting his cool get away from him.
    They continued to observe as the spy bot rolled into position for it's cameras and microphones to pick up anything happening in the club right now.
    Only one thing was on each of their minds, a lead on what could possibly be the biggest story they have ever uncovered in their careers. Fingers crossed. 

- Sam Matz

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​The black absence of a lightless moon
A void held in the breast of the sky
Samhain passes quietly as a chill
In solitude and silence with no cup to fill
So night turns to dawn in a swirling mist
The sun's glow orange as the harvest's wane
Here is when sleep may overtake me
Because there's an absense of light for which I plea
November frosts over as soon as it comes
Bringing a Northern wind and a maple bite
Leaves along the road frozen as stone
That precious snow drifting without a sigh or a moan
And music remains my comfort
When everything seems to skew
Whether when those ice white shivers grow too many
Or when friends thin to be further and few
In these penultimate weeks night will be heavy
Air like a knife at celsius zero
No one to hold and foreign friends to miss
Returning to darkened solstice slumber awakened by no man's kiss
Tonight a white candle of a bright round moon
A joy held by the hands of the sky
Each new night passes like a deathly chill
In peace and comfort for the air to fill
So dusk turns to night in a celestial tryst
The moon's glow pale as the coming rain
Here is when lunacy may overtake me
Because there's a presence of light for which I plea
December will come as quickly as the evening
A lavender sky over sunless days
Bringing a thickened pall like a lulling drone
As numbing to the eye as it is to the bone
But music remains my comfort
When sense seems to cease
Either by the wake of a low hanging sun
Or just by a melody that has yet to be sung
In these final weeks life will be heavy
Chilled to the core at celsius zero
Alone in bed thinking of the things I miss
Dreaming in a darkened solstice slumber, never to be woken by a foreign friend's kiss 

-Sierra Matz

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Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
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​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

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​The blaring sound of the sirens could be heard even from the Club district. It was most likely another shuttle deploying to a mining complex somewhere far away from here.
    The report said that the victim was last seen here before someone showed up with a slug-thrower and checked him out.
    Senny and Gus pulled up to the club where the coordinates were set. Grid-313, Block-4B.
    Puffing his CigRet in and out very slowly, the vapors leaving the left side of his mouth and out his nostrils. Senny checked his Phase-Revolver, counting the number of bolts in the chamber using his right thumb. He counted seven bolts in the chamber, anyone looking to cause the two of them any trouble tonight would receive a verbal warning before either of them would have to use stun. And if things got really heated, they would be forced to go lethal.
    Gus tossed an empty cup of Cafinite into a trash bin. Putting out his CigRet and exhaling the last puff of vapor that he held for a few seconds.
    He looked up to the balcony of the club, there were some punks up there talking to a pretty shady looking character. The jackets they were wearing were lit up by the club's sign, which was unreadable because of the rain, and the fact that most of the letters were shorted out.
    Senny and Gus both looked at each other, weapons at the ready should anything go wrong in the club. They got out of the car and walked right up to the front door. Before they went through however, Gus noticed a splotch of blood on a broken window-frame.
    Senny noticed too, he pulled out his Revolver set to stun bolts. Gus pulled out his long slide, also set to stun bolts. The caliber would pack a little more punch from the revolver than the long slide, knocking someone down as soon as it hit.
    Gus stood on one side of the door while Senny stood on the other end. They nodded to each other once...twice...On three they busted through the door. And at their feet lay a large blonde haired man, with his skull bashed in.
    Four other bodies lay in the corner where a table stood, with cards strung across the floor. Each of them beaten and bloodied with broken bones. One of the bodies, a man with an implant in his left hand lay there with a crushed neck.
    Gus walked up to the bartender with his weapon still drawn.
    "What the hell happened in here?" He said with an urgent tone in his voice.
    "The guy's up on the balcony right now," the bartender said. Pointing to the staircase to his left. Not very concerned with the mess of bodies in his own club, it seemed.
    The two detectives ran up the steps with their weapons heated and ready to fire.
    Once they reached the balcony, the punks Gus saw out in the car were standing there counting credits. One of them was missing his left shoulder, with wires exposed and crackling as the rain spilled all over the balcony.
    "Hands up, all of you!" Senny said. The punks obeying the command, even the one missing a shoulder. The rest of his arm falling off as it hit the ground with a loud splash.
    Senny walked over to the railing to see someone walking away from the club. He was unable to make out what the figure looked like because of the damn rain. Before he could give chase, the misty figure disappeared into the rainy night. No trace of it left...save for the bodies. 

Sam Matz

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​Dylan Carlson is a scribe of the intangibility of tone and texture, pitch and volume. He is a quiet, reserved and rather shy man. However, once he steps foot upon stage, all reservations are gone. Cloaked in majestic tones of violet, magenta, waves of cobalt blue hues, deep somatic phthalo and Prussian blues; he is more Magus than musician.
Adrienne Davies, Earth’s drummer and Mr. Carlson’s collaborator for their latest album, Full upon her burning lips sat perched at her drum kit as a psychic weight to keep her fellow priests anchored before the altar.
It was the evening of June 27th, 2019. The Denver night was hot and still. Earth took the stage following their opening act Helms Alee (whose front man insisted upon standing in front of a wind machine the entire set, so that his long locks would flutter about) and looked out into the cavernous music hall.
Dylan Carlson thanked the audience in attendance at the Marquis Theater that evening. After adjusting what seemed to be a multitude of knobs and peddles his hands (tattooed with protective sigils, which he believes to shield him from sour notes) halted above the strings of his guitar for a vast imperceptible moment of golden eternities glimpsed through a mild static hum which squelched into the opening notes of Cat’s on the briar.
As Ms. Davies began rhythmically delineating the beat, she became more Shaman than percussionist, and a dark enchantment was cast upon those in attendance. This was a spell which fractured what the Scientologists refer to as present time. It was a spell which lifted everyone in the space above both themselves and the stage. Many of us became overwhelmed by the ecstasy of this performance ritual, and literally began floating upwards into the rafters and corners of the ceiling, our arms swaying limply like rag dolls or marionettes.
Now I know by now how the first born of Egypt felt as the terrible wrath of God fell upon them hungrily until the moment of envelopment. I realized I too was becoming a projected entity, as my soul slipped itself out of my body and around my skin like a lizard. I was Oppenheimer’s bride: Will you take to have and to hold until you both become death, the shatterer of worlds? I do.
The band went into The Colour Of Poison displacing the fractal balance of meridians bliss, cultivated only to be shattered. Collective energy was absorbed and assimilated in the string’s vibrations drawn through weightless hum of pick-ups, only to be flushed back into the atmosphere of the venue.
Feeling the squeeze and clutter of the crowd acutely, I decided a brief sojourn to the men’s room was in order. Upon entering the serene white porcelain temple of gastric passage, I discovered, much to my amazement, that it was empty aside from myself. In the distance, beyond this room, notes did unbound and were reborn in a fashion which can only be described as feebly jocular; like a dying man forgetting himself in a brief moment of joy.
As I emerged into a room tinted with touches of blue and red, I was greeted by Descending Belladonna, which the audience rode like waves of neon surf towards the stage’s plutonian boards. By now my soul had been brought back under skin like umbrella under trench coat, so I broke through the green mossen chrysalis doorway of the Marquis and into the crisp night air, carrying the notes in myself on the way home that evening and for many days thereafter.

Steven Lee Matz
July 3rd, 2019

​An Artist knows what it’s like. When you rub shit on the walls and people kiss your ass. An Artist knows how it feels to be a loser. To fuck the prettiest and ugliest girl in the class. To be ashamed for existing. To be a Product, like an object on the shelf. To get so high that you figure out God, but cant get anyone to love you. Most artists fall to their knee’s in fear. The smart one’s do, anyway I imagine. The Dumb one’s throw money into the fire, and scorch the earth aplomb. Artists grab the gun in self defense and shoot themselves in self assurance. Poking your eyes out is Bloodsport to them. They self medicate in their own bile, and bathe in your apathy. When you look away, they secretly wish that you’ve been offended. That means that they’ve done their job.

Dave MacDowell 
July 17, 2019 

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

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Tupelo Hassman leads us deliberately and adeptly into the underbelly of small town life in her latest novel Gods with a little g; the characters who populate this subterranean small town existence are a motley crew known collectively as the Dickheads.
Theirs is a world which many of us can recall in the recent corridors of memory yet would care very little to return to. This novel relentlessly captures the rhythms, rhymes and reasons of its characters state of mind; and, although subtle, it maintains a psychological edge which is rather Dostoevskian in its power of perception. We share in the stifling atmosphere of this world, as Ms. Hassman pulls us back into the mire of this world time and again, without us realizing until long after. The intrusive familiarity of life in the midst of such an acutely claustrophobic plane of existence as this is not merely observed by the reader but lived.
The whole of Gods with a little g is rich with the textures of both rot and ritual. Helen Dedleder, a seventeen year old is our guide in the town of Rosary, California. As is the case with many small towns across the continental United States, it is a town besieged by a collective puritanism which is little more than used by it’s citizenry to mask the collective perversion teeming just beneath the surface and occasionally bubbling to the top.
It is the opinion of this reviewer that what Ms. Hassman has succeeded in creating is nothing short of a masterpiece of 21st century literature; an instant classic.
In using such language to describe this, or any work of art for that matter, there is a temptation to compare it to other works which concern themselves the final push from adolescence to adulthood (many of which, themselves are categorized as classics) yet to do so would undermine and even cheapen the force of this books individuality.
Overflowing with originality, poignancy and profundity Gods with a little g is more than a novel, it is a transformative experience for both its audience and author. If you read only one book this year make it Gods with a little g.

                                                                                                                                                    -Steven Lee Matz

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    Zylo was drenched in the misty rain, his red clothing was dripping on the asphalt of the lower alleys near Galak Memorial. Everything around him was a blur of green and pulsating red lights, with sprinkles of blue and purple here and there. Few knew these old streets better than he, especially since these streets predated the blocks and grids of the higher, more modern, cityscape. If only so many cities and sky-scapes had places like this, with the old and the new mixed in from Grid-455 to Grid 522 of City-star, all the way up to the center of the Solar construct Valhalla of Prime-star. Alas it was not so, like he would have wanted.
    The girl showed herself once again, maybe for the last time, maybe not, hard to say. While she seemed kind and sweet, her presence was more intrusive than it was welcoming.
    "Well, I can't really help that. You're just going to have to get used to me, whether you like it or not." She had a point there, no one else could see her but him. A glitch in his eye, perhaps? He put his index finger to the left side of the head, hoping to adjust his implant so it wouldn't show him this seemingly invisible to all but him guardian angel.
    "Don't you remember? You need to use a screw-tool to get that open. And even then, it wouldn't work anyway, I’m gonna be keeping you company for the whole ride." She was really starting to agitate him. If this was some bizarre glitch, then maybe he could find a doctor and have him fix this little issue. Of course, that wouldn't be very cheap, and well, nobody would employ someone whose had sixty-five percent of their body mechanized and augmented. The price of being a Vanguard, unfortunately.
    Just then, he felt someone bump into him. He looked to his right shoulder to a some-what built man, with what looked like cybernetic wiring in his biceps. His breath smelled like Lighter Liquor, Freezed Gel, and a hint of VERY old whisky. A rather rare kind of drink is whisky anymore, most places don't even have any in stock, let alone sell any for reasonable prices. And that Lighter Liquor smell, well that alone always had an unpleasant aroma to it just out of the bottle. You couldn't get arrested for having a bottle of whisky in your home, after all, it was known to be something of a collector's item if you were into that kind of thing. He personally though, never really had much of an interest in such things. Now the Lighter Liquor and Freezed Gel on the other hand, was oh so quite illegal no matter where you lived on the construct. At best, you could get a fine of eight hundred thousand *credits for so much as having a little flask full of that stuff on your person. And at worst, you could get life in one of the many prison blocks on Cage-star, or even death if you're carrying enough of either substance. In this guy's case, he'd probably be charged decisively, and very swiftly for his transgression.
    The tall man with the breath of a dying animal, and improper wiring in his arms, looked down at Zylo as if he was some kind of immovable titan out of an old story book.
    "Hey-huh, pip-squeak...you're in th-huh...way." This idiot could barely stand. Burping and having hiccups over his words, slurring and just breathing the way he was, right in Zylo's face. He wasn't amused, not even a little bit. He's already on a mission for his fallen comrades, and people like this jerk don't know what he had to go through all those years ago.
    That was already enough for this stupid crap, he raised his hand with five of his fingers out.
    "Heyy...whatcha doin' there you little shrimp?" His thumb went down, now only four fingers were up.
    "What...ya think you're bein' funny, ya little shrimp?" His pinky went down, now only three fingers were up.
    "Uh, maybe we should just go, don't you think?" She said with concern in her voice, his ring finger went down.
    "Look, he's not worth our trouble. He can hardly stand-up, he doesn’t know what he's doing." His index finger went down, the tall man's eyes had widened as though he just found out the bar was closing early.
    "Oh I’m gonna crush ya, y...huh...ya little punk-a…" His words were cut-off as Zylo lowered his middle-finger enough for it to still be up near his knuckle, as he thrust his nearly clenched fist into the man's skull. His middle-finger having clashed with flesh and bone, and the flesh and bone of the man’s skull clashing with what felt briefly like metal and steel crashing into him. The man slumped over in front of him before Zylo grabbed his limp body and threw him into the window of a nearby club. The sound of glass shattering and women screaming as the man's bloodied skull was the first thing everyone saw in there.
    He walked to the door and swung it open, most of the patron's not paying much attention to what had just happened. They had to be pretty damn used to seeing this kind of violence if they were just sipping their drinks and eating whatever crummy food this rat infested hellhole had to offer. A couple of guys were playing what looked like a card game, with actual dollar bills piled-up to the side of their table. That was another old sight to see, tonight was getting pretty nostalgic for him.
    He walked up to the bar at the other end of the club, the bartender not shaken-up at all from the sight of Zylo's bloody hand. Another one who was used to having these kinds of disturbances in his club, this most likely wouldn't be the last time for something like this to happen here, most assuredly.
    "What can i get for ya, bud?" He was to-the-point and blunt, he wasn't terrified at all of his new violent customer. A rare quality amongst those who aren't modified, or even straight-up synthetic. Refreshing, if a bit annoying as well.
    He grabbed a napkin and wrote down his order, and slid it to the bar-keep, along with the amount of credits needed for the order. The bar-keep's eyes glossed over the order, and his hands swiftly made the order as if he had lightning in his veins. Before you could blink, the order was ready to go. Quite impressive for a human.
    "There ya go, if ya need a refill the station's right over by the door to the stair-case. If you're plannin' to head up to the balcony, remember that i get a few noisy punks up there. So, watch yourself." He's more concerned about a few delinquents than he was about a modified killer? What a world to live in.
    Zylo sipped from his mug, the bitter taste of Yellow-6 was completely lost to him. He sometimes misses being able to taste things, but then again, he really wouldn't be able to stomach this crap if he could.
    The men playing the card game motioned for Zylo to join them, with that pile of dollar bills getting bigger and bigger. Why not? He might as well indulge in some fun before he must get back to work.       


                                                                                                                                                               -Sam Matz

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

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​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

cult-ure
/ˈkəlCHər/

noun
noun: culture; plural noun: cultures

1.
the arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively.
"21st century popular culture"
synonyms:           the arts, the humanities; etc.
a refined understanding or appreciation of culture.
"men of culture"
synonyms:           intellectual/artistic awareness, education, cultivation, enlightenment, discernment, discrimination, taste, refinement; etc.
​
2.
the customs, arts, common beliefs, social institutions, dogma and systems of indoctrination among a particular nation, people, or other social group or sect.

As a tool of mass societal engineering, as well as influence upon the imagination of the individual, culture is more often a mechanism of the propagandist than the individual. Indeed, the modern myth of culture is a symptom of the epidemic of civilization, a collective condition which leads us back to the cardinal principle of politician, priest, and animal trainer alike: cultivation.
Cultivation is domestication, and domestication is control. Culture is a myth; a construct used to wrangle the divine spark of the creative spirit and slow its evolution. Destroy the myth of culture within, before it destroys you without.

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​Gus walked out of the station first, the rain was still pouring hard on the lit-up night. A thick mist was visible in the neon filled night, almost all the roads were nearly barren save for a couple of passing ground cars and late night workers. Although Gus enjoyed the night time more than the day, he didn't like it too much when it rained. His coat could only do so much when the weather got really bad like this, but he supposed it wouldn't be too bad tonight considering he was mostly gonna be driving tonight.
    Senny walked out of the station with a slightly annoyed look on his face, Gus could already tell what his partner was thinking. "Lemme guess, we gotta drive to the Cafinite Night Dine for a few refills for the night first, right?" Senny flipped a 150* credit coin to Gus and walked out to the car where the downpour seemed to be at it's worse. Gus whistled at the coin in his hand, "I guess a few is not the right word for this case." Gus walked over to the car and pulled out his I.D key, the lock beeped and clicked open for him while he looked around to see if there were any cars or other vehicles around the parking grid. No vehicles of any kind were coming nor going, so he and his partner were ready to head out for the night.
    "Hey Gus?" Senny asked while he pulled out a CigRet for him. "What do you think about the homicide?"
    "I think it has a lot to do with all that political crap, you know Sen?" He flipped on the wind shield wipers and pulled out of the parking slot, he pressed a button on the wheel and the rear-view mirrors were adjusted accordingly. "I would bet you anything that it was most definitely a hired hit, and the trail is being covered up to pin the blame on someone else. Hey, maybe the order could have come from someone up in the high table." He drove out of the grid and activated the car's Siren I.D for their night-shift. 
    "Gus, the high table thing might be a little far-fetched for this. I could see your point if it was a commander or admiral or someone with high rank in the corps, but as far as we know this was just another homicide and the victim was only related to someone of a high rank."
    "Well it's possible the culprit had threatened him and any person that was of relation to the victim. I mean, don't you think this could have something to do with blackmail or some other kind of scandal for anyone in politics or the army or some such thing? I think it might be."
    "The members of the high table work to balance the economy, stabilize our society, and build our culture. They're not mobsters or some secret government with a conspiracy to enslave everyone, or control everything we do in the world." Senny was starting to think that Gus was spending too much of his free time watching documentaries on conspiracies and sleepers from other galaxies, and he wondered whether drinking might be better for him at home or not.
    Gus knew a lot about the high table of Prime-Star, and he was well informed on the current state of the system, as well as the political history of the stars. But he was also too quick to judge a case when someone was threatened or even murdered because of supposed propaganda or any other crap. There was no doubt in Senny's mind that this was an exception to some of Gus's profiles on political related homicide, but he was still a little annoyed about having to hear it so much and Gus could see that.
    The Night Dine practically bloomed in the headlights and the aroma of Cafinite and some baked goods flowed out the front door, a man wearing a lift uniform walked out of the Night Dine and popped a sleep away pill in his mouth.
    The two detectives pulled up to the lot and turned on their C.P.U’s (City Patrol Updaters), and stepped out of the car. Both of them quickly getting drenched in the downpour pounding the entire city, with their coats not helping much in keeping them from getting a little cold.
    The night was young and glittered with sparking lights in the rainy, misty city. It was time for those cups of Cafinite and a few other things to keep the two going tonight.  

Sam Matz

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