I dreamt of a skyscraper smack-dab against the tiniest town. From the highest floor, I pressed my face against the glass and tried to make out the lives below. The owner of the skyscraper was the brother of my friend, who I was there to visit. A cloud drifted below me and slowly wisped apart. I felt strange, like a strand of hair trying to grow through scar tissue. The sun was on its way down and I wanted to go home, a long motorcycle drive away but I wanted to go home, or at least far away when it finally got dark here. There were no birds; that's what had been bothering me there were no birds nor roughest beast, the skyscraper and the tiniest town was nestled in a wilderness without. I'd seen enough empty trees, heard enough of empty men and I wanted to go home.