Northbound at dusk, I imagine you in a neighboring city, someplace not far from here, with not much between us. Road. Window. Farmland. A settlement or two. Perhaps even cows. Or a ghost town made of cardboard and steel, narrow spaces which I pass through like indecisive light, uncertain of what I intend to be until it's too late. It's always too late, by the time I realize I know nothing about you. Know nothing about sound. The way your body creaks when you sigh, how you lift your arms above your head, the invisible moon in your left fist, in your right, a glass filled with fire.