Back to concrete.
Gasoline drips from tail pipes.
Back to 90 degree angles.
I swear I can still hear the whisper of tunes- or my brain is unwilling to accept the silence.
It is all still so close, just behind my eyeballs- the touch of rough hands, the frantic furies of eight fiddles, the redwood dust constricting my vocal chords as I belt my frustrations into the night.