I am home.  Someone’s perfume clings to me like the last foggy vestiges of a dream, or maybe a nightmare.  I can’t remember whose it is, but, regardless, it has my blood high, and my thoughts racing.  From the soundtrack for the drive home, MC 900 Ft. Jesus, Falling Elevators:  “Cars rush by like falling elevators.  My headlights catch fleeting images of ghostly faces pressed up against the glass in silent desperation.  I’m lost in the middle of nowhere, but I keep my eyes on the road, and I don’t look back.