Convenient Fever

[ AUTHOR'S PREFACE - Here is a story that I am pretty sure is ripped off of one of my late night delerium filled movie binges. I wrote it though so you may as well read it. Just makes you think though, is it always a good idea to stay inside in lieu of braving the elements? ]

“Who was the bright guy who even thought to build a convenience store all the way out here?” The speaker, a college student, male, of average form and looks, appeared to be about as forlorn as the weather outside. The snow had been coming down for about four hours and even though the highway was only a few yards from the sliding glass doors that led to the small parking lot, the entirety of the outer scene was obscured by a thick layer of white. The television, which had gone into a fit of snow almost as fierce as that outside three hours into the storm has said that it was the worst blizzard seen in the region for three decades. The bright, thankfully warm convenience store had in that instant, when the TV and phone had gone out and the back-up generator kicked in, become the small dominion of the two attendants.

“Or rather who were the geniuses who decided to get jobs here?” Answering was another young man from the same school and dorm mate to the original speaker. “So, Ryan, what do you say we do next? We’ve already pillaged the nudie magazines and played about a million games of checkers, I don’t think that the old man would be too tweaked if we got into the food do you?”

“Knock yourself out bud.” Ryan remained leaning on the counter staring out into the snow-covered night as his friend went off in search of something to munch on. “Hey, I’m going to turn down the lights, we don’t know how long we’re going to be here and we’re on back-up power right now as it is.”

“Good idea, you go and do that, I’m busy over here with some nachos.”

With a laborious groan Ryan rose and went to the back of the store. On his way he caught a glimpse of Paul in the opposite corner crafting a monument out of chips, cheese, and hot peppers. The look of sheer pleasure o Paul’s face annoyed Ryan to a degree only he could understand. He had been raised by a mother who was utterly paranoid of natural disasters and had instilled that fear in her youngest Ryan. He was scared out of his mind by the entire situation and could not even mention it due to a cocktail of bravado and embarrassment. When he finally go to the utility room and turned the lights down to a dull ambient glow the fear inside of his breast made bile rush to the back of his throat as he nearly passed out. Playing it off as a little fall he darted to the back as casually as possible and brought every box of candles that the store had to the front counter.

“You look uptight. Relax man; it’s only until morning. That’s what, ten hours at the most? They know that we’re working.” The casual stroll that Peter normally carried himself with was interrupted by a very noticeably conscious effort to preserve the precarious balance of his caloric masterpiece. “But yeah, those candles would be pretty cool wouldn’t they? We could have like a séance or whatever you call it.”

The thought of adding an occult spin to the already bleak situation only compounded upon Ryan’s already mounting fear rendering him unable to speak besides a small hoarse yeah that ended a foot out of his mouth. He tried to put their situation into easier terms than those he was dealing with but in the end it all came down to him being trapped in a dim little shop with a roommate who only mocked him with his foil-like courage in the face of his cowardice.

Beer. Yes, that had to be of some use to him in this situation. Alcohol would let him relax, he might even be able to get some sleep and just be woken by the owner having someone dig them out from under the snow that was piling on the building by the inch. He went to the back of the store and pulled out two six-packs of cheap beer. When he returned to his post he offered Paul a six-pack, he declined. Taking this upon himself as a challenge Ryan had within the hour taken down nine of the twelve that he had brought up with him. It was well into one in the morning and his hunger had started to kick in. Paul had slunk off somewhere and probably fallen asleep under some obscure cabinet in the store. Shoving the thought of his friend out of his mind Ryan staggered down the aisles looking for something suitable for quenching his mounting appetite.

When he had reached the chips and pretzels Ryan slipped to the ground with a dull thud and feigned at a grab for something to eat. Within moments the upper half of his body lurched to the right and Ryan unleashed a torrent of vomit on the ground beside himself, only moments before he lurched for a second time, this time instead of vomiting, landing in the puddle he had created only moments earlier.

Shadows danced on the ceiling sending images of fiendish creatures across Ryan’s field of vision. The lake of vomit that he vaguely remembered laying down was cleaned up and the lights that he had dimmed were completely off. The light that cast the eerie pictures came from a large patch of candles that had been set up in the center of the counter. All but dragging himself to investigate the scene he found the candles blazing and Paul nowhere in sight. Ryan could not make out the clock but by the way that all of the candles were down to mounds of flaming wax he could postulate that it had been quite some time since he had last seen the waking world.

“Paul?” The voice that ensued from him sounded pleading and all too pathetic for Ryan’s liking. In an instant, as if in answer to his call music began to drift down from the speakers in the ceiling. It was “Horse Latitudes” by the Doors. The disturbing melody with Jim Morrison’s droning ominous narration added just one more thing to the ever increasing aura of campy horror that was none the less beginning to really wear at Ryan’s resolve to remain at least somewhat valiant in the face of one of his greatest personal fears.

Staggering to his feet Ryan scanned the room trying to reckon a semblance of his friend. The flickering of the candles only served to play tricks on his mind. Instead of his friend he saw fiends and devils. Every time the song playing would loop he would feel like every time the words were more and more meant for him.

His agitation grew both due to the unfolding scene and at Paul in particular. Ryan’s thoughts began to race. It was all Paul’s fault. He was doing this to him. He was trying to drive Ryan mad.

Flicker.

Ryan awoke once more to the candles having burnt themselves out.

Flicker.

The lights were back on, just dim enough to let his eyes see vauge outlines. The Doors’ “Horse Latitudes” was still playing faintly overhead.

Flicker.

Paul! Damn you come out here and

Flicker.

With all of the resolve left in his body Ryan went behind the counter and grabbed the revolver that the owner kept.

Flicker.

You can’t hide forever Paul!

Flicker.

Ryan stood in the middle of the store laughing a mirthless cackle.

Flicker.

There you are!

Flicker.

Paul knelt before Ryan begging for his life appealing to all his senses of human compassion and decency.

Flicker.

BANG!

The buzzer gave off two shrill blares jolting the sleepy young student from a deep sleep. With a lazy and exhausted lumber he made his tired way over to the intercom.

Who is it?”

“Police. Can we come up and have a few words with you?”

The tired young man allowed the officers entrance and went over to his coffee machine and started a pot to brew while he waited for them to ascend the several flights of stairs. A million things began to flood through his mind as he waited for them to arrive.

By the time the three of them sat down they all held mugs of coffee. The officers looked about as if they were nervous about what was in the midst of transgressing. Finally after a long suspense filled silence one of the one in uniform spoke.

“Now Paul, I’m going to have you look at some pictures and you need to tell me if you recognize who you see in them, ok?”

Paul nearly dropped his coffee as he barely managed to eke out the words of “Yeah, that’s him. That’s Ryan.”

After he had recovered from the shock of finding his long time friend and roommate dead he looked at the officers and asked what the cause of death was.

“Suicide, seems he couldn’t take being snowed in all alone overnight.”

THE END

King of the Dance-Floor

[ AUTHOR'S PREFACE - This is a story that I wrote quite a while ago as a cautionary tale of sorts. The dedication here is to all of the "Kings and Queens of the Dance-floor" out there. You know who you are, all I ask is that you take a few moments to read. SO without further ado, I present for your reading pleasure: "King of the Dance-Floor" ]

Look over there, the corner of the bar. The space of the room just outside the reach of the dance-floor lights. See the guy leaning over the bar talking to the bartender? He’s the one wearing the tight red shirt and the low-rise jeans that show just a little bit of a treasure trail. The one with the skin that borders on yellow and caramel. He’s holding the purple drink in the short glass. Yep, that’s the one.

His name is Jeremy and, well if you could accuse anyone of being downright evil, it would be him. I suppose that you would like to know what event was able to prompt such a strong remark. The scene begins in that same corner, nine years ago on his twenty-second birthday.

...

Meat Market. The only club in the entire city shameless enough to embrace its identity. The neon sign out front acting like a bug zapper, drawing nearly every young gay man in the tri-city area to it at least once, but usually much more. Still, there were few regulars, which is to say few people that went to the same pickup bar every night. But there were the few Adonis’ with enough je ne sais quoi to get into and take someone home from the city’s most exclusive gay club every night. Jeremy was naturally one of them.

He had by this point become a sort of impromptu king among these beautiful elite. This status came from a combination of both the best looking and most promiscuous among the lot of them. And besides that Jeremy had every single one of the others beat hands down when is came to intelligence. He was a student at the city’s premiere university studying philosophy and political science, though fortunately, at least in his mind, he was able to keep others knowledge of this fact to a minimum.

Jeremy thrived on clichés. After all he had been raised as a cliché. His father was Japanese and taught of all things martial arts. His mother was black and owned, of course, a beauty salon. So, being one to not defy the edicts of tradition Jeremy drank, dosed, danced, and fornicated as much as he possibly could. He imagined that life was a stage and that who you were had nothing to do with the part to were told to play. And so it was with a great deal of inebriation that we find Jeremy, in the far corner of the Meat Market, drink in hand, newly twenty-two years old, and looking as hot as ever.

...

Jeremy stood next to the bar with a drink in his hand, as usual. It wasn’t that he especially liked alcohol but it enhanced the look of it all. With a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other he was the epitome of recklessness, which at the time was the vogue thing. He was wearing a tight shirt with the word “SLUT” emblazoned across the chest in a graffiti font. His pants were one size too small and hugged his crotch so tightly that anyone within ten feet, even in the dim lights of the club, would find a black hole of attention drawing them closer. It was early, at least in club time anyway, it was only eleven o’clock not even midnight yet. The dance-floor was just beginning to become populated with dancing revelers, none of the really chic people began to dance until at least one. Scanning the room Jeremy ground his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and set his drink down. He began to slowly sweep his gaze over the assembled crowd that even at this hour was almost at capacity. The expression on his face was that of sheer boredom. Which is not to say, of-course that he was bored. He was having the time of his life and in fact for some reason or another he was especially happy that night. It was his birthday and he was going to get laid, a present to himself in a sense. The suspense was the best part, waiting until the proper prey revealed themselves.

It is of course a natural instinct of man to attempt to regress to his most basal urges and desires. That night Jeremy was the apex of animalistic. He imagined himself as a great lion hunting down his prey on the open Savannah slowly stalking his prey until he was prepared to make his attack and pounce. With a slight internal start Jeremy spotted his target for the evening. Sitting at a table on the other end of the dance-floor nearly completely obscured by people and poor lighting was perhaps the most beautiful boy he had ever set eyes upon, though he was sure to add the mental qualifier, except my own reflection that is.

Forgetting his drink Jeremy slowly rights himself and, ever mindful of his pace he began walking towards his newly discovered target. He pulled it off with acute precision. His gait gave nothing away but a sense of assured coolness. If one walked too fast one looked too eager, too slow and one would appear as if he were trying to be chic, though he was of course, he just never let on. As he traversed the floor his body was caught in majestic poses by the flashing of the strobe lights. He gave off the illusion of being made up of still pictures in time, ethereal and staggeringly compelling in their majestic beauty. His eyes never left his target the whole way there. Arriving at the table he discovered that his approach had not come unnoticed, the element of surprise it seems was lost. Oh well.

The figure sitting down stamped out his cigarette and looked Jeremy directly in the eye. The effect, for the first time in what in that instant felt like an eternity was a small, barely noticeable sharp intake of air. Idly in the back of his mind Jeremy realized that people called it a gasp. The figure opposite him was wearing a black muscle shirt with one-quarter sleeves and pants that looked the twin to Jeremy’s own. Even sitting down Jeremy could tell that he was tall, at least six foot three by Jeremy’s rough estimation. His skin was the most delicate shade of cream the world had ever seen, it was as if his complexion yelled I tan under the dance-floor lights. His mouth had a subtle curve and was full without being feminine his cheekbones were high, giving Jeremy the impression that he was being faced with a rival predator on a lonely mountain path. His hair was the sheer essence of “in” it gave off the look as though he had just had amazing sex and he wanted the world to see. The last thing to take effect was the power of this creature’s gaze, like an Arabian Ballisk this boy could kill a man with his stare. They stood like so for not even a fraction of a second, though to both of them it felt like an eternity and a half.

The strange new encounter was the first to speak. “Hey. Rohan. And you are?” The timbre of his voice was perfect, for a moment Jeremy wondered weather or not he was facing an incubus. Shaking the thought from his mind he made his reply, mindful as always to keep his tone and pace at just the right levels so as to appear as a god condescending to a mortal. “Jeremy. You’re new.” It worked. From that moment on both of them knew that they would be sharing one of their beds by the end of the night, it was just a matter of ritual from this point onward, it didn’t matter who initiated it.

“Let’s dance”

...

The next morning thin motes of winter sun stabbed at Jeremy’s eyes slowly rousing him from his deep, exhausted sleep. He rolled over from the edge of the bed, the position he had adopted in order to make it clear that he was only interested in those he brought home for a singular reason. To his shock, and surprisingly dismay Rohan was not on the bed next to him as expected. Bolting upright he groggily scanned the room. Rohan was sitting precariously on the narrow ledge of Jeremy’s bedroom window in a pair of red jockeys, he was holding a thick stack of papers.

“Oh you’re up. I’m sorry, I found this on your desk and I couldn't help but start reading.” Jeremy instantly recognized it as one of his more in depth papers for one of his philosophy courses. He was usually so good about hiding those away, that one must have avoided his gaze that particular time. This provoked only one thought in the back of his mind. Damn. So much for vacuous. “I can explain...” Explain what, how he wasn’t really intelligent, that he was a good-looking vacuum of the human condition?

“I don’t care how you explain it, you are giving Kerouac way too much credit for the fusion of eastern philosophy and popular American literature, I mean Ginsberg alone and his studies with the Zen masters are much more influential than any one of Kerouac’s novels or haiku.” Jeremy sat dumbfounded. It seemed that there was more to this guy than he let on, then again the same case held true for him as well. The only downside was that it was actually shocking to have taken someone home who was more interested in an intellectual ponder than having one more spurt for the road. It wasn’t right, this was not the way that things were supposed to go. Jeremy made it up in his mind that he would do something about it right then and there.

“Yes, but if you look at the timing of the works which were published and the time at which Ginsberg did study with the Zen masters it becomes quite apparent that Kerouac was the predecessor and therefore most important within the movement.” Where the hell did that come from? The debate continued through breakfast and well into a walk through the nearby park. Eventually though there paths were forced to diverge and to Jeremy’s great surprise Rohan left bearing his real number instead of his stock fake one that he gave to all of the others.

That night as Jeremy was preparing to go out to the club his phone rang, it was Rohan. He invited Jeremy over to his house and atypically Jeremy accepted. He reasoned that the sex was just that good and that he could use a night away from the club scene. He called one of his friends to tell him why he would not be at the club that night.

“Watch out man, you could be headed towards a relationship.” Relationship. The word haunted Jeremy all the way to Rohan’s apartment. All of this time he had done so well to avoid being someone's boyfriend and he was not about to throw it out now.

That evening Rohan and Jeremy talked, ate, and well, talked. When he awoke the next morning Jeremy realized that he hadn’t even removed so much as a sock. Perhaps it was true, it could be the budding flower of a relationship. This could not happen. He was king of the dance-floor the most renowned lothario in the club circuit. And what was worse he actually liked this one. It was nice to finally have someone to converse with on a higher level, someone to share something meaningful with, it really was nice.

Relationship.

...

In the following weeks Jeremy thought, he thought constantly, in class, in bed, in the shower, everywhere where he was conscious. Is occurred to him one day that something had to be done. So with this in mind he set out to remedy the dilemma which he was now facing. And what a dreadful dilemma it was. He had found someone that was everything that he could ever ask for and to take it to another level someone that he could quite possible come to love, someone so perfect that is made him hurt. And it only got worse, Jeremy began to think of being faithful to Rohan, he thought about living with him and sharing a bed with him without sexual intent. To say the least it was the largest fright he had undergone since his birth. Chiefly he was scared, secondly he was angry. He was furious that that life had become this complicated. He was a gay man in the prime of his life, this was not supposed to happen. This, this love that had so callously intruded in upon his life was not part of the role he was meant to play in life. And so with a shrewd determination he set out to solve his confounding conflicts.

By the time a month had passed since their first meeting Jeremy had made up his mind and set out upon a course of action. Calling one of his friends he devised a plan to make sure that no relationship could ever blossom from their interactions, ever. And so it was with a light heart that Jeremy sat down and constructed the following letter.

Rohan,
I am writing this because I just don’t have the time to meet you in person for this. You are such a great guy, and I mean it but I just can’t see or talk to you anymore, it’s all just too much to handle. I really hope that you find happiness in life, and trust me I regret not being a part of it, I really do. Well I have to run, I’m off to go club hopping, very busy I told you. Well goodbye then.
-Jeremy


Jeremy had one of his friends drop it off, just to get the message that clubbing and hedonism were more important that Rohan. After all when it came down to it, it really was. He was king of the dance-floor and no one was going to take that from him, ever. That night he went out and met someone new, the next night the same thing, so on and so forth for the next two years until he graduated. After that he decided to stay in the city, mainly for the convenience of the constant stream of good-looking guys that he could sleep with.

Some time later he found someone else that fell in love with him, the details are irrelevant, he broke the poor creature’s heart for the sheer amusement. He began to take a sadistic thrill in using people and tossing them aside when he was done. He repeated this process with another. And then again there was another one after that. It continued on like that. He began to live in a cycle of evoking love and then shredding it. By the time he hit thirty he was still as good looking as the day he turned twenty, and he often lied about his age to younger men to get them into bed and proceed to win their hearts. Though by this time he was no longer the king, he had lost that title a long time ago to someone who was fresh and new. The transition came without popular opposition. It was a seamless transition of power. Then he had to work and could only go to the clubs on the weekends, and his once precision skills in picking up men had faded as new styles and techniques dated those he had come to hold so dearly. By the time he was thirty-one he had stopped going to the clubs entirely. He worked and went home. He worked and went home alone. He began to sleep in the middle of the bed. Sometimes he would wish that there were someone there he could be master of. Sometimes he thought of Rohan. On the eve of his Thirty-second birthday he decided to return to his old haunt, the Meat Market.

...

And here we find him, lonely and alone, looking for someone new to take in and destroy. You see, even though he regrets it, it is so ingrained within his nature he can do naught but use people for his own pleasure and then discard them when he is done. It seems as though he has become a method actor. Looking up from his conversation with the bartender he notices someone sitting at a table across the dance floor. Excusing himself he puts down his drink and walks towards the table and approaches the sitting figure. The seated man is the first to speak.

“Hey. Rohan. And you?” This meeting the gasp is more audible and both parties are painfully aware of it. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” With that Jeremy turned and walked towards his home, to sleep in the middle of the bed.

Musing With Ella

So it's nearly two in the morning and i'm listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing the Cole Porter songbook. I am currently listening to "Miss Otis Regrets". For those of you who do not know the song i suggest that you go and find it, it happens to be one of my favorites. Also, I feel that K*** may be correct. I am Miss Otis. Hopefully I can outrun the lynch mob though. But that's not the point of any of this at all, not that there was one to be exact. "Are you my life to be, my dream come true?" I love that lyric, i find it to be so incredible poetic each time I hear it. The next song up is "I get a kick outta you". I like that song because it actually and quite eloquently uses the word ennui. I still have not quite figured out why I like that word so much. Perhaps it is that it fits me so well. I have written on this before though so I won't bore you with it again. What I will tell you is that I have had a revelation of sorts in the past few days. I was laying there bitching about my life to myself mentally and all of a sudden something changed. For one moment I was in the greatest pits of despair, my soul tortured beyond measure and the next I was completely illuminated. Now what I am about to say will not sound groundbreaking but allow me to assure me that it is. I realized in that singular moment that I hated myself. But in the same stroke of thought I realized that I did not have to be me. Now before I go on I will have to thank Kate Bornstein, without her this knowing would never have come upon me as it did. I, and anyone for that matter, can change myself into whatever I want. The only problem here is deciding what it is that I want to be. Well I have not decided on that quite yet, but when I do... believe you me there will be celebrations abound. Right now all I know is that I am going to begin to transition my gender, again I'm not sure to what right now but maybe I will soon. And if I don't I guess I can always just try differant things out until I do find something. But it is getting late and I really should be getting to bed. So goodnight one and all, and in the words of the great Ella Fitzgerald, "Let's do it, let's fall in love."

Thoughts From the Winter

I can never get into any story that involves a cop. It’s four in the morning. I’m watching “Hellraiser [5]: Inferno” on the Sci-Fi Channel. Why this series ever got past the original is beyond me, but that’s not the point. So, like I said, I’m sitting here on the couch and I haven’t slept in two days. I can’t get into this movie even though I know that in twenty minutes some guy with needles in his head and face is going to start killing people. It’s because the story is about a cop, and like I said, I can’t get into cop stories.

It’s always been this way as far back as I can remember. It’s not like I’m some sort of needless rebel. I’m actually one of the more law-abiding youth of my generation. I know several family friends who are police officers. I like them too. No, if I hated the police I would probably like seeing them fail, I think that is the case in the movie but I’m not sure, I can’t pay attention. Come to think of it though I’ve always been that way about a lot of things.

I’ve got another weird one for you. I cannot make myself, no matter how hard I try, watch movies with Whoppie Goldberg in any sort of role. Now this might not seem odd to you, a lot of people don’t watch moves with actors that they don’t like. I like her, I think that her comedy routines are hilarious; I can even listen to her and pretend that it’s radio. I just cannot look at her. It’s her eyebrows. She has none. It’s like she has these two ridges of off colored flesh where they should be. Look real close next time you see her in theatres and you’ll get what I’m saying.

The movie just went crazy, pulling my attention back to it. There are these two alien things making out and another off to the side peeling off his face. Hey, it’s pinhead! “ ‘I don’t understand!’ ‘Ah, the eternal refrain of humanity.’ ” Why is it that all sequels wax so philosophical? Not that this was anywhere near as bad as the third installment of the “Matrix” series. The movie is ending and I am very confused, but that’s normal for me and these types of movies, you know, cop movies.

If I remember the series right it’s about a box that sends you to Hell. That would explain the face peeling and all of the corpses and hooks. Still though, what’s with the horny demons? I don’t think I’ll ever understand that one.

It vaguely reminds me of a book I read once about Hell. I don’t remember anything about it though, but still, it does remind me of it.
The channel went off for the night, no more science fiction until seven. It’s three hours of infomercials.

I had to change the channel; the infomercials were killing me. “You get used to a world that is ordinary.” I feel like this late night anime is speaking to me. Or maybe it’s just a delirium-induced state of philosophical pontification, and at four in the morning it is always pontificating.

I’m not used to it though. Everyone else around me is though. I hate this world, and not in some sort of over indulged suburban way either. I mean yeah, I tried the whole suicide thing, and failed three times, but I swear I’m not one of these textbook brats. I have a good life, I admit to that. I just don’t feel like I fit the life I have. It is so ordinary, bland almost, a conventional upbringing for an unconventional soul. And again, not to sound melodramatic, but I feel chained down. I feel like I have been bound to a life that was never meant to be mine. It’s almost as if my soul were spit out of the loom at the improper time and I was woven into an incorrect existence. And this feeling, this thing inside of me gnawing away, telling me that none of this is right, I will never get used to that.

I need to run from this. I can feel the gnawing. I can feel this banal existence eating away at me until all that will be left of me is a big ball of ennui.

I’m drawn to the television again. It was loud for a moment. Someone cried out in agony. Some sort of projection of self, at least that’s what it looked like to me, came out of this guy’s head. “We crossed the bridge as usual, and before we knew it the seasons had changed.” I caught that line from the television. How much beauty can be put into a single sentence? How much pastoral grace can be contained within a handful of words. That sentence is where I need to go. I don’t know what that means at all, but I know that what I said was right.

I need to find that bridge where I can get lost in the bliss of passage. I have sought that blissfulness through death, and failed. I will try again soon. Perhaps the next time I will find the place I am looking for. I am convinced that it does not exist anywhere on this earth at this time. Or could it be just that this place is hidden? Perhaps there exists a place where there are others like me. A place where other “remnants of something that has passed” carry on must exist somewhere. I want to run away. I want to go and search out these people, or even this person.

If I could find a friend, a true friend who understood what it is like to belong somewhere else at all times, I could be happy for the rest of my days.

Old people who live alone make me so sad. Old people who have no one but themselves, forsaken by family and society alike, I have an odd sort of kinship with them. People will say that I am making light of their woes. I know better than to do that. I know what it is like to feel as though you are the only one who is real. I know what it is like to be around people all the time and still be isolated, as if your true self is forever sealed in some foreign sepulcher.

But why muse on this at all, I can already feel my conviction fading to cowardice and weariness, when I awake I will have to face the curse of life with only embers in my breast. Or perhaps tomorrow will be different. Perhaps I will wake up, put on my shoes and go, just pick up and leave in search of that which will fill the gaping chasms of my soul.

So with hope in my breast, goodnight.