I am aware of loneliness tonight, in the only way that bourbon can sour and reflect the moon. I'm wired awake and yet exhausted, full of mirror images of portraits from today and a burden of busy-ness I'd rather drop and leave against the side of the road, a cairn of unfortunate weight. I am a folk song, repeating a chorus, full of difficult third stanzas and forgotten fifths. Let the fire hit my veins, sing me to sleep in the secret places where I set my words against the window sill, a light to warn the darkness, a lantern in the night. I am a cyanotype, a shadow of a thing, imprinted on you, the ghost of something you said in passing.