At a diner near Nye, where no one has heard of cancer, and everyone sleeps drinking Templeton Rye, you are sitting across from me. Your shadows arrive like vagabonds, they whistle, they blow. Your hands conceal a furnace, your tongue tastes of cinnamon snow. Yet, I have learned that there’s a price for each invitation and an avalanche awaiting every sin. But my pockets are finally empty and my cuff-links are made of tin.