Stars and other bullshit swirl above, overdone as only the day-in-day-out night sky can be. The most hauntingly trite backdrop to meet your end beneath. White-knuckling the hot asphalt, trying my hardest not to fall off the street. Ear cocked to the ether, waiting for a boilerplate email reply to curtly let me know if I’ll live or die tonight, with a dash of brand-standard pizazz sprinkled over top. Round faces dot the edges of the earth, all sunburnt concern. A mother of three kneels and gingerly tries to push her wallet into my mouth. I part my jaws and kick it onto my cheek with my tongue. Somewhere far away, someone is plucking at a guitar. “Hey, I know this one,” I tell her. “I really, really like this one.”