I go out walking, after midnight/In the moonlight, just like we used to do/I'm always walking, after midnight/Searching for you ~Patsy Cline

Mornings, the sheets stained with tar, the soles of my feet smell of asphalt. Thirty-six months of sleepwalking down highway shoulders - If I stop at October, then I'm shredded tires and pages of poetry set on fire. If I end at May, then it's the books of Marx at the bus stop and metaphors found through a camera lens. If I end at December, I have to tell you that once I sold you a story of a ghost who vanished inside a church window. You sealed this vision with silver and a kiss. Even now, the specter's footsteps echo the week before Christmas. Every road is a palimpsest, scraped down into a scar of itself and filled again with a new story by the feet who travel it by night.