In the Night of the Heat

On the coldest days when the rain drives down quietly against the sound of traffic, with salarymen trodding past in their black suits and somber faces, it seems as if the city were mourning: how I imagine Britain on a shitty day. Nothing about Japan in February has stirred in me the slightest passion for sex so it is difficult to imagine what is inspiring the cats outside to screw so savagely loud. They are bangin` in my hallway and below in the street, slamming about in the building next door and twisting along the train tracks in town.
It started with the haunted cries. A deep, sorrowful sobbing and then the aggravated wails. They`ll stare at one another by the corners of buildings, face to face and screaming. Daring their would-be lovers to make a move. The moon has nothing to do with it, but it was full the first night I was scared awake. The squeals were so pained and childish. Like toddlers all over the city were being stabbed a little. An awful, awful screeching that crashes easily through the thin walls and glass of my apartment: something so horrific tied up in passion.
Now, they`re in the third week of the marathon and the games are scheduled for 3am until ? I`ve got a front row seat but I`d prefer a nose bleed.