The land rises. I am a lamb, hung from a black tree. Legs kicking. Arms thrashing to the sound of distant memories crashing against the rocks of history as yet another hangover cuts me down. I’ve lived and died so many times. Life is one long Groundhog Day; only I have no Bill Murray to keep me company, and no Andie MacDowell to slap me in the face for being selfish and egotistical. All I have are painkillers and sunless afternoons, and the stink of routine where progress is worshipped like a deity. My hopes and dreams bounce along the streets where I went to school. They exist in crisp packets and old soda cans. The cans are full of ants—the packets of what was once cheese and onion crisps now ecosystems for earwigs and baby mice. Music is my alibi for all the times I was here in body but not mind. The night is frenzied. The lights are neon. They remind me of Death Mountain. Y’know? The mountain in Zelda, but only the version in the SNES game. You must know what I’m talking about, right? Those yellowed consoles housed in museums or waiting to be found in boxes in lofts full of teenage porno and love letters written but never sent. My childhood is a wistful dream just thinking about it. It comes back to haunt me on Sunday evenings when I’m lying in bed looking out the window, searching the sky for those tiny robots out of the movies that made what was once broken seemingly as good as new. Nothing like that nowadays. Not as innocent, anyhow.