Time was, the early hours of the a.m. found us in the dim light of dreams. New York City was ours, one night we were in some hookah joint in the East Village and he popped a set of mega headphones on my ears and made me listen to the new Missy Elliott. Then there was that other time, in Williamsburg, and that guy, Mark Something, someone as cute as that don’t need more than “Mark”, anyway, one of the Omaha crew, Mark Something, was there too, and Conor Oberst was very drunk. Another time we were sitting on the stone monument at the Ninth Street entrance to Prospect Park. It must’ve been three, or four. It was cold, the way it is at three, or four, and I couldn’t light his cigarette with Schmio’s piece-a-shit souvenir lighter. So many nights, I remember, he hailed me a taxi, then shut the yellow door after me. The Manhattan lights, from the Brooklyn Bridge, were always on. I left, he left, the stories are different now.