Down here the murders don’t have motives, down here the passions don’t have names, and all of those fire-trap tenements, they stand around like Catholic martyrs: They’re just waiting for the flames. Outside the boys are carving eastherhouse sunsets on each other in the park, and there’s schoolgirls get lost in the heat-haze, break down in reeking subways, like a church of broken hearts and police fever cuts through the streets like a knife, and once you step outside, you’re outside for the rest of your life. (…) There’s love in the tall steel where the men don’t ask questions and the girls have dirty hair, they come silently, clasped in a doorway, vanish along empty highways, on a street-car named despair. And the lights never change and you can’t see the signs, and once they’ve got your name, pal, it’s just a matter of time.