it’s the empty wine glass. it’s the ash trays edge in gold, and sacrificial tobacco. it’s the time tuned out, spent anywhere but here. it’s two decades of missed music, catching up on old moods. it’s being empty for the wrong reasons. it’s a false pursuit. it’s a flightless bird in a past life. it’s pure conversation. it’s a mid-august meteor shower, but it’s only an airplane again.