He sits with the fortune teller, already a bit of a fortune teller himself, but neither one can see the future at all, only signs that show where things are pointing, but no way of knowing how to get there, because the there is already always somewhere else. And he is somewhere else, always somewhere else, can't keep himself in his head these days, and not here on a night when the moon is almost big enough to eat, but not yet, he's so hungry and it's just not enough, the moon in the sky is just not enough. The dogs are always speaking, though, they always show up, and they lead the way, there are directions, and the directions always are already always the same: stay close to water, keep your eyes open, and keep your mind clear (as best you can, it's perfectly reasonable that the only thing you can see are those same shadows made by the moon on a night when it's not big enough to eat, not yet)...and it suddenly occurs to him, because there are cats around every corner, watching him to pounce on him or to hide from him, he can never tell which, he must look more menacing than he ever imagines ever, that this is a rehearsal and he is being criticized, and he might not be the only one playing. The dead are watching very carefully, and they think this scene was played too quickly, and the clothes weren't quite right, they didn't anticipate the night, and that leather might look all right under certain lights, but under this thin (too skinny) moonlight, no one really believes that it can do anything to keep the cold out. The dialects are all wrong, they need to be more authentic to the time and place, and should be rooted more firmly in race, class, and gender, and the pitch should be more perfect. And his hands tremble too much, especially when he is around her, and his eye is starting to twitch too much, especially around her, because of the things that are going unsaid, and the dead want to hear the words out loud so they can believe the story, because they don't believe the story. As much as he loves the dead, he wants to say thank you and offer them another piece of sweet bread, another cuban coffee, another shot of rum, but it comes out wrong. He says: I hear what you say, and I believe what you say, but this isn't your rehearsal, it's this moment that's happening in time, and it's happening to me. I would love to play every moment perfectly, but then it would not be a moment in time, it would be something else, and this is happening to me in time. And the worst part of everything is that it won't read right for you, it will never translate for you, and you'll never believe it, because you don't hear the music that I'm hearing in my ears right now. This music is making me sing, it tightens my body and makes me pull myself together, sometimes so hard that I might start to tremble. But it's not for you. This moment is one that I live through in time, and it's something that only the living can walk through, and that's why you are jealous of me, and you can see further down the road, far enough to point out the directions for where things seem to be going, and that's why I'm jealous of you. But there are some songs that the dead cannot hear, they are there for the living, and I'm on this side of the grass, and I'm hearing songs that make my heart start to hum, and if I tried to explain them to you, they would fall short because they are not your favorite songs, even though they might be repetitions of the ones you knew when you were living in bodies. Living in a body is terrifying, you might remember, and I just want you to remind me of why you are jealous, because I'm too hungry by now, and forgot what it means to be waiting on the moon.