The night before Christmas. Rain falls steadily from low clouds. We are refugees in a downtown bar. We chase the acid with Irish whiskey. Chase the whiskey with PBR. There’s a bell next to the door. We stand there giving angels their wings until the bartender invites us to leave. We walk home through the rain, our clothes growing heavy. We steal firewood from behind a frat house with the idea that a fire would be nice, this night before Christmas. At the apartment, we turn on every light, but the wood won’t catch. It smolders like a living thing. Fills the room with thick white smoke. We open the windows, go out to the fire escape, try to light a joint. We invent a language. The fire alarm goes off, our neighbors wake. We wait for Santa, wait for Godot. We wait for the police to come arrest us.