We wake up in St. Louis, Missouri; there's a dark, lonesome bridge that's littered with needles.
The air is more brisk than death; my eyes unhinge, and there's a sharp point a few lifetime's away from my pupil. I wipe the crust away, and she's not there. We are not beneath the bridge, together. I cannot bear the lonesome feeling; to be away without my circus girl.
I pry myself from the cold, stone earth -- and then I stumble a few feet -- and, suddenly:
I'm nearly crushed by a sleek, black, gas-guzzling phantom. The bridge arches high and mighty over some polluted two-lane highway. This is only another black story, to be filed away; there is nothing new about it. We're permeated by the same rush of deceit and hopelessness, and we will not tell a soul.
This is only another black story. And she is not here.
I whisper, 'Where are you?'
There is no answer, and I do a sleepwalk dance through the bridge, shielding my eyes from the sun with my fingers.
I inch closer, through the cold, gray bridge. Sun floods my senses and I cannot think or feel. Where is she?
'Betty. Where are you?'
Then there is a flurry of ash descendng from above, gracefully dancing to the paved floor. My words echo and reverberate off of hard, honest stone into my soul:
"Betty! I love you!"