The night was full of bullet holes and memories. Both of which were dripping with blood. Blood like my hands, I had clapped too hard for too long, without sense or reason or regard for the red, red liquid that dripped off of my once-tender digits. I believed, I believed and as I was believing I began to fly. I flew on wings older than time, tattered and molting. I was still clapping and I was exhausted, I had forgotten how. Despite this onward and upward I flew just wanting to believe. I slipped, or stumbled, as much as one can stumble in the air. The stars watched stoically, neither laughing nor judging, but shining on nobly and cool. I thought of Shakespeare and he said how we would all vanish "into air, into thin air," and before that even, "our revels now are ended." I still believed as the wind rushed past me, tearing though my tattered wings and my tattered hands. I watched as the day swallowed the night.