The truth is that everything begins with sadness. The street lights are lambent, loose, as if heavy with longing. It's like holding music, or trying to, the notes breaking into imagined fragments. Yet it's there. Sad, shadow-filled. LIke the spaces between rain, with which we excuse this inarticulate thirst. Remember when the sidewalks curled like tongues, tingling with delusion? Eyeball to eyeball light leaps like a wet dog thru whose ears pass the puttering of small feet, slender as a knife in the lung. The quiet puncture. The gentle loss of blood.