The Hollywood star walked in to a man blindfolded, on his knees, mouth open. The Passion of the Christ was playing in the background. It was Easter, and I said I’d attend Mass this year, but I was naked poolside because I’ve suffered too. The bossa nova wasn’t Brazilian. It wasn’t from anywhere. I took off my chain, my earrings, and stayed out of it. Some bitch on the phone screamed “I’M ADDICTED TO SEX!” then laughed, pointing up in awe. The chemtrail, like a spectrogram of God, was a voice note telling me to fuck off for the last time. How many times do I have to kill you, Lazarus? Saturday is gone now. I don’t want to fear becoming a person who leaves. Air kiss goodbye like cicada wingbeats. Wetting the concrete, making that good smell, I dove into the water.

DAVID SAN MIGUEL is a writer based in Los Angeles.