i am driving as the moon travels up the sky, a floating thing that disappears behind trees and into the distance as i move toward home. the lights flick on at the moment they have chosen, and i am there, to witness it, this mark to the beginning of night. it has a deadline. there are no pelicans on the lamp-posts, and all of the world is a series of lines and lights that augment each other against the passage of time, against the way in which each thing is an individual thing, not a blurred one, not a smear but a point.