Everyone is asleep, the houses dark, the town's vacant streets a gray quilt shot with shadows. I turn slowly on the lawn, trailing a piece of sheer cloth. It ripples in the moonlight, and its shadow flows across the ground. I swirl it faster, then slower, making the variegated shadow dance, its patterns forming and dissolving as the cloth folds and opens again and again. There are no passersby to wonder what I am at; to scurry away with lowered heads so as not to attract the attention of the madman. I let the cloth rise and fall and watch with fascination the blossoming and wilting of flowers of light and shade. I find myself humming softly, as though these patterns were some randomly generated score in an alien form of notation which I am attempting to decipher. A flutter of bat wings and the humming trees accompany me. The mad song is sweet. I would sing it all the time.