"I used to be lunatic from your precious face."

It's glorious windy out tonight. A black, cold night with pools of light to wade through on quiet sidewalks. I would have loved to have had my photograph taken tonight. On the street. Outside. Anywhere.

At moments, the wind sounds like graceful sweeping. Or the opening of candy. It's an inviting whisper. I long to go out in it. Trees dancing, their limbs gone lilty but with a sort of frantic desperation. "We can't help it," they're saying. I understand. I can't help it either.

On a dark stretch of highway, you can drive one hundred miles per hour and never know the difference.

The language is leaving me.