After helping myself to a swallow of Zero that was half opened and left sitting on the counter when I found it abandoned, I'm about to put on that Deep Purple into the CD slot in Abbey Road Two but then I stop and consider the Keith Jarrett. It always suits this mood as the lengthening shadows hit the Cape Cods. The gold Jeep is parked outside. From inside the kitchen a dim light gets dimmer. I realise that the hand holding the Zero is tightening around the can. The fear returns as I gaze at the hand. And then a flash of emotion begins its build up. From deep inside I recognise this feeling. I don't answer it.
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