This day has already happened; this day will not end.

He could guide anyone to the point of no return. He'd corral them with poetry, music, invoking the alcoholic gods that all died young. But we were so young, we didn't know we had anything we would miss.

My loves have always been seared with this singing, this singing written by death, the way some lands have always been crippled by war.

What if we love the black hole in the center of all things? What if we are people like that? People who love to be cursed?

The earth spins further from help. Beyond us the heart monitors go on, the fluorescent lights buzz, the commentators shout, the casino leaves fall into the desert, sirens blare. But all we hear is the rain.

We remained talking, fighting gently or viciously for what seemed like hours, but it was only minutes or perhaps a second, because it was only a dream.