It is hard to describe nights like last. Sometimes, I feel the grand, over-arching power of the huge movements are the only ones worth putting down. This grin will last for days (regrettably, the smell of smoke will as well) and it will be hard to remember something as genuine and wonderful as last night.

But somewhere larger inside my body makes home a different feeling. It is so rare an occasion in this town to be awake while everyone is asleep, but 4:00am on Friday may be that theatre. The chirping birds. My dirty hair. Tiny coke-bottle glasses. The shadow of the building, the brightning sky and a cool, pink face. I couldn't possibly think about leaving.

When I talked, I began to cry two little bullet tears. They were not wiped away, not brushed or gauchely smeared, but flicked carefully away into the grass. Your foot on mine. I honestly have never felt such intimacy.