They sang the words New Jersey Turnpike and I began to cry. Twenty years of America in my ears and I am still lost and unable to find my way. The concert hall lay quiet, dark, as their voices curled out into the night. The aftereffects of last night's wine bottles thrashed in my system, screamed insults and pleas at my unrelenting skin. Stockholm's cold, but I've been told I was born to endure this kind of weather. When I was a child, at some point I realized the immense Bigness of life, the madness of me being alive, how incomprehensible our places in the universe, and it terrified me. For a split second, tonight, I had that feeling again: entirely overwhelmed by the prospect of living a life, and of wasting it. I cried into the circus floor and wanted the show to be over. They changed the clocks last night, and I'm still not going to bed on time.
* * *
We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when he made life so sad.
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