He brought up “It’s a Wonderful Life” and she said, Immigrants don’t have small town experiences here, and the evening was deemed a failure.

He dreamed up the opera in the shower and ran to the studio covered in soap and wrote it all down. It sucked. The shower flooded the house.

The truck hit the tree. That much was obvious. The rest involved booze, a hitchhiker and twenty dollars. He didn’t tell the cops about that.

I sat in the corner next to the fireplace hoping to avoid every one. And then the Endless Talker sat next to me. And I jumped into the fire.

They stumbled around the darkness without the stars to guide them. They came upon a rise and someone said “poop.” And no one found it funny.