• The music is a short, common melody, the lilt of a viola rising like a phoenix into the morning radiance.

    I am able to dream of the highlands vividly, every lake and puddle burned into my corneas by degrees

    The stadium lets loose its bounty on a world that is already a coliseum, crying for the blood of gladiators as a regiment gets garrisoned at the Alamo, selling their victory to industry for a profit.

    And Jeanette muffled her sobs against my shoulder as we fired our last magazine wildly into the air, and as the artillery got its range and the flood bore down on us, I, in my piety, asked if I could be her Orpheus.

    But she had never visited Camelot and left me in the ruins of the community center, a gallant cameo in her life, kicking a can of Pepsi at Old Hickory.

    And I saw Jefferson Davis out of the corner of my eye, sprinting through the orchids crying, "Alight! Alight! Smoke kills kids, and Dublin's on fire!"

    And it's a minor compromise, Upperline, Lowerline, bottomline is that my alliance here in unraveling, and I see I am no diplomat, so pass me the Cognac and the research on Carthage, and I'll move on to the slow beat of a drum.