I will never get tired of this city that’s blue as a shin bone, blue as a pair of false teeth, blue as the eyes of a fish, blue as my grandfather’s school book. And the children sleep in their prams, bundled against the cold, thin little vapors like smokey needles rising from their unformed faces–one sees them on every street, small, seemingly abandoned bundles devoting themselves to the subconscious. No sign of their parents: it’s a matter of common sense to put your baby out alone in the winter. City as blue as your dead mother’s curtains, blue as an old soldier’s wrist, blue and blue and blue and blue and blue and blue…
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Planet of the Blind 