The hours grew so late that I started to sing out of tune, and when the record ended, it skipped a bit, to me seeming like part of the song for a while at least. But after a bit, I did get up, and flipped the record over, then went to sit on your bed to wonder in charmed paralysis where you’d gone to, where you were; you were at work of course, always at night you were, on a weekday anyway. But, in your life: where were you, and what did you do, how did you always feel? Then I stood, placing the record back where I’d found it on the floor, slipped out the back door but not before making quite sure it was locked behind me. I walked to the corner market and browsed the aisles, thinking of breaking into your house again tomorrow too.