Chris Hosea Talk ran into twilight, then stopped. A hidden charm was taking shape above branches and power lines, warding off selfless sleep and leaving me to brood on a bolus of hope and pain. Alcohol helped, and rubbing. Each drumbeat and flower seemed a suggestion that if not taken lightly could lead to a permanent lifestyle change: a journey to Rome, or learning jujitsu. When constellations showed their arms in the east, I was...