With the town disappearing in a series of vast ripples, the tree carries us into a strange new world, and yet although changed, the light we seek remains the same. The whole thing reminds me of the music video for Come as You Are, by Nirvana. Those precious three minutes where everything exists in a fluid state of melancholia, where the desperate sense of longing for something without a name propels us ever on down a road that knows not the comfort of safety nor the warm embrace of our mother’s watery womb. Yet why would I wish to return to my mother’s womb when Meeko’s has become my past, present and future? Like the ghosts that visited Ebenezer Scrooge, she plagues every level of my being, from the nocturnal pangs of regret to the cries of rapture that dance on each one of the horizons that meet my tired eyes every time I stand at the window of my room, cigarette in hand as her juices drip down the insides of my thighs. With the tree lashing out at the remains of a post office on the corner of the block, all traces of those letters never sent are washed away by a rain that never came. Laughing with her head tilted back, Meeko digs her fingers into the fabric of canvas we call life, and with every ounce of willpower she can muster, spreads it as wide open as only she can.