It was a young and trivial relationship at a time when my most serious romantic efforts were linked to a city. Searching out over 2nd Ave, I was listening to Whiter Shade of Pale roughly around 10 pm, trying to catch the drift of the wind, watching the city descend into water, into the night, and the blinking lights and the noise, and the debris. Watching the water slowly rise, covering the elderly woman in her prime, drenching the city in olive oil. The catharsis of youth, the culmination of inferiority which was done, gone, finished, burned. Freedom comes at the expense of those in the streets drowning in highly flammable rain. Luckily enough, the wind that night was a long and steady-burning fuel source.