It is difficult to say which is inside, which is outside. If the stage, like a calm memory, comes to mind as I kneel to tend a small campfire, or if I am in fact there, tuning a guitar under the blue lights and dreaming of a desert journey. I know this music was recorded live. And that we were in Chicago, a city that now stands for the meeting of these two possibilities. Strange noises float through tape crossing a window, through doors that no longer meet their frames. So do the private longings and hidden jealousies begin to seep out of fine cracks in the music, like tea from old china. From the cavity of my skull—a soft rustle of jackets, a darkness with one hundred eyes. Is that the audience? They themselves seem hardly to believe it. They lay down in the dust beside me as I unroll my blanket, kept awake by a cricket singing in a stone courtyard. The moon has risen. I do feel like a glorious phantom. I, too, am unsure I am here.