These nights, I sacrifice sleep to pour my eyes full of the arts of others, a vision of wood and paint and muscle and voice, worked with hands trembling with young love for the world, with full-bodied fears. I give over other hours, many of these few before the dawn, to winnow with my tongue, to rend the air, to struggle into life the ideas that rush me. A hundred pounds of meat and more, crashing to the floor of a train car, sent spinning to press this rib cage against yours. Each night carries its bright promise like a star packed in gelatin, distorting angles and disguising eyes, and the minutes peel the shadows back until the dawn.