I loved directions. “In case of fire, break glass.” So there was a fire. I broke

the glass. I salivated for more directions. But there was none. The fire waltzed
 

and continued to rage—Xanadu, lies. The laws of flight and fall perceived

rebellion. Its park, so dark. A huge hum of darkness I have never heard,
 

listened to. Nor welcomed with its promising cryogenic address. So I found

new ways to make a friend. Then a man came out of the sprawl. Himself confused
 

with the sound of his name, even James Joyce could sprightly not explain,

this man made me rethink directions. “In case of fire,” he said, “break me.”
 

He might be the glass that I made, then broke open for athletically good reason.

But what do I know about breaking? I just loved directions, and I learned
 

to break them with tremendous speed. It sounded as though I were coursing

my own roundabout. So I ran after the fire that followed me. I ran fast
 

without caution, walked without warning. And I lived another day fighting

the roving red on alert on the roadway. Something drove me to stop. I stood
 

transfixed staring at that something. It was not the fire. It was the night patrol

piercing the dark. Seeing sadness, I shielded my eyes from the police lights.