She's a murderess, staring at a filthy gray parking lot with dark flashing eyes and oversized black-rimmed glasses that perch at the bottom of her pert and perfect nose. The remorseless clouds are white as ice, and the forgotten rain looks like curdling glass pools and strange rose-colored bladders on the wet black stone. There are thousands of speckled flecks, or pale bluish diamonds, embedded within the sad mercury. A badly beaten and nose-bled drunk is loudly barking sharp gibberish at a stoic doorman in a funny purple fry-box hat and matching, heavily silver-buttoned ensemble. The blurry headlights of the passing traffic seem alien and out of place. Whatever outsider, brute, or wayward phantom there is will not wander or stray close to her; they're afraid of her, and as well they should be.