I drink my way through a life of circuits and webs. The record store closes with the sunset. I stand in the empty street and wonder what to do with the rest of myself for the rest of the evening. I show my dirty hands to the wind. Wind carries sound of '60's jazz from a window that is open but inaccessible to my shadow. I comfort my shadow with dirty hands. Last light of day is squeezed from a sun squeezing itself below the horizon. My shadow leaves me to climb the shadows of trees. The wind is a radio with dying batteries. I listen to scraps of music. I am thankful there is no one left with the memory of what we all thought I would become.