We thought of that night, how she slid among us, touching a forearm here and there, the air crackling, leaving a wake of pixie dust, such deadly deadly stuff. Whit Whitaker, her old boyfriend from high school, had called, and she couldn’t resist one more highly charged fuck. Whit Whitaker was just that attractive. His ambition was such that his friends began saving his letters. Jack Kerouac wrote a sentence as long as a jail term, one that went on and on, like a road that winds into the middle distance, disappears around a bend, and comes out of the darkness again like a dragon meditating, like the last round before we pass each other going home, a road of asylum and then again turning once more, not knowing any better. Jack was a little hazy about who he was, where he was, and if, somehow, there was a private place where he was needed.

It’s our City after all, the place we conceived after we put the book behind us. In your review you say, “It’s the kind of music you’d walk to the ends of the Earth for.” A smart red smudge like an eloquent flame. I meant to start this: “Bird Hurt, how I love you! And that kiss comes back like our gypsy ambitions. As Billie said, ‘Don’t threaten me with love, baby. Let’s just go walking in the rain’.”

All around them the birds wheeled and skittered and the skies were bright as coins, minted anew, in this pristine country, already known for its bravery, foolishness and words. We vowed to have more meetings at his place and he promised us next time the new album by Rabbit Leathers and the Bodgies. Eventually, though, I slipped out quietly, leaving her to the wild pampas of dream, where she could cure me, over and over, till I was on my own. Perhaps, at last, they would start the next phase of their lives, the phase where I become a mostly fond memory, a respected saint. I never heard from her again. Which is as good a place as any to end the story of Cracker Hobgoblin.