I met a boy while I was running down the stairs, but when I stopped to talk to him, he grew golden wings of wax and flew away toward the cold bright sun. I watched until I couldn't see him anymore, and he never fell, so maybe he was more than angel and less than a boy, or something that's the next best thing.

There's desert all around, and there's frost upon the trees. The road in front of me is shimmering in the heat, and I'm not sure it goes beyond that first mirage. But there's a silver-blue low-rider with its engine gunning and I think that it's waiting for me.