Reports from the Dead Museum: Neg Spaces

Neg Spaces

Absolutely nothing happened. The sun had emerged to beat down mercilessly for the next six months and hardly a soul was about. Inside their air-conditioned cells they drank beer and dreamed of football. Others lay about naked, masturbating or fucking with one another. The heat was hot enough to work up a good sweat.
Across the street she watched tv with the window open. In fact, most of the night windows flickered ntsc sludge. Five hundred channels. Some stray cats stalked stealthily in the night. Curses were cried out loudly by an anonymous drunk. Again and again, gradually fading off into the distance.
At night you hear a lot of different kind of sirens. There's the police, fire, ambulance-those three predominate. Then there's also the intermittent car alarms, burglar alarms and who knows what
wailing off in the distance, mingling with the crickets sometimes so loud you can't sleep. Sometimes I want to kill whoever's setting off that alarm or whoever let that alarm sit there, mindlessly wailing.
I woke the next morning to the sound of trumpets. A processional seemed to ooze forwards then recede; the sound was at once stately and chilling.
I hurried outside and wandered down mysterious streets, searching for the funeral marchers. They seemed tantalizingly close, yet I never caught a glimpse of the musicians. In my mind I pictured their costume as colorful and solemn, yet I could not quench the thirst that parched my eyes.
Can you write with a pen exhibiting ink, and also have brush? I thought as much.