It's almost 10:30 pm and I am thinking about the woman on the radio who sang about how she's made of "dirt and stardust" and, sleepily, I wrote those lyrics on the back of my sketchbook And about how I wish I had an accent, every word drenched with butter or spices the flavor of my country but instead I just have grease. As I'm writing this the flashlight's spot of light is half-spilling onto my wall, "Helena Beat" is stuck in my head, and has to stay there because I wrote it down. I know tomorrow I will wake up with a cramped hand and remember that I wrote. look back on it, and think that it is stupider than I thought.