The sky is transient, luminous blue and black. Some tough drives by with the windows down and the car radio blaring Ghostface Killah, hiphopping about the thickness of his dick. Apparently it’s really fucking thick. The tough is a pallid blond man, redneck scrawny. You almost laugh at the incongruous juxtaposition. From your position, you can see the tree across the street, from which a squirrel falls to the ground for almost no expected reason. Pronouns are now impossible here, in the heat of the day, the beach lies beyond the trees on the other side of the street, yet they seem from this vantage point to be an impossible half-world away. Young women walk by in lazy bodies and cellophane skin. They do not know who they are. Someone walks by in fake fur. You wonder why the hell would someone wear fake fur in the heat of Venice Beach. A young trans runs up to the man wearing the fake fur and throws a bucket of fake blood on the fake fur. The man in the fake fur says, “What the fuck, dude?” and the trans man says, “My pronoun is THEY/THEM” and the fake fur guy pulls out a hammer and says, “And this is called ‘Maxwell’ motherfucker!” and you see him chase them down the street. As they turn the corner in the distance, the man in the fur coat looks like the squirrel that fell out of the tree. You wonder what the squirrel’s preferred pronoun is.