I love you like the cowboys love the Indians.

You took me for a long drive up to the Pointes, and there you told me your life story in less than a hundred words, not a syllable more. Your start was the same as your finish, and your life has been nothing more than a revolving circle, a door jam you cannot escape, and I find myself gazing inward at your eyes and outward at the empty night sky, devoid of any light or personality tonight.

You tell me you have loved before, and it has been unsuccessful, so you will not love again. You whisper to me, underneath sickly elms, how you will never resolve the ghosts that haunt you, and I concur with a listless murmur of abandonment; for you see I have shades too, we all do, but what makes yours so much more special than anyone else's?

God bless your determination not to fight them. You lost your faith long ago, but still carry the cross for everyone to see. Losing and gaining my religion all in one sentence, I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and I hope and pray, wish upon a star that does not shine down tonight, that the ghost of Tom Joad doesn't come to haunt you anymore.

Goodnight, good night, put out the light, and then put out the light.