Textured with crackling asphalt, the analog-turned-digital-turned-a-thousand-page-turns tapestry glides under the closing canopy of the wild woods. The Sun chased the Call away, until the Radiant could no longer bear the day's weight and sank into an amber ocean of a thousand, refracted memories. The Night beckons us. It always has—it always has been just out of reach, just beyond the flailing grasp of our incandescent headlamps.

I stand at twilight; its cool breeze wafts across the gaze of the Moon. That ol' wind whistles my steel stallion of thunder to gallop out of an embankment of shadows. I climb aboard to a low rumbling approval, the kind of purring that only a 350 or 460 cubic engine can provide, as together, we are spirits entwined; we are shooting stars across the neon sky.