Over the hum and grind of afternoon traffic

Sorrow rides on these chords like a hitchhiker on a murder spree. Dead, every last lick of levity that dared to offer a lift. But then again, where else can you lift spirits but from their graves? Rise they do, wavering unsteadily and barely visible like the line of the horizon blistering within the colors of the sun — but is it dawn or dusk? Either way, and however poetically, the visual effect is stunning whether it marks day's beginning or end. I wonder — when you see the brilliant reds, purples, and oranges, can you tell the difference? Do you think the sun is setting? Not I. Brünnhilde has not arrived to serenade these curtains to a close, so the show must go on. Who cares if the audience is jeering, throwing rotten fruit, or filing out? To hell with those critics and their worthless prohibitions and platitudes — they would have us believe that it is better to have loved and lost, that we should be pleased to have shared the breeze on a bus.