Unleashed in motley carnival rags, the pulsing mass of neon fingers the slats of the Ferris wheel as it sweeps a giddy couple into the plexus of blackness that edges the blurred skyline where gravity appears to lose its grotesque insistence on modesty. Meanwhile, a neatly clad couple at the local observatory huddles in the foothills with their pleading eye, begging a question of the heavens with the calculated insistence of a blind supplicant on a pilgrimage to the crystalline pinnacle of the Himalayas where the air grows impossibly thin. Somewhere a reveler drops cotton candy onto a puddle and somewhere a comet closes in on the atmosphere. Somewhere. And who among us, knowing our lightness as we rise and fall over the hills that hug the horizon, could require anything but one solution from these sciences of sky as we fall into silence on our way back home to four walls that inevitably collide until a ceiling arises? Who among us could defer any more to the carnie than to the astronomer as our heads slide back into that primeval space where release seems divine? None. None, you say, as you turn up the radio and concentrate on the broken yellow line that guides us through the night.