I am somewhere where I can't be rescued, not by me or any superhero, underdog, or lover. When numbers are kings of your repertoire and the lyrics of the dusty tango, hit you there's nowhere to turn to. Veinte años no son nada. All the mighty achievements of your lost youth are not written or remembered by the flights of birds that have perennially migrated over your head without your petty knowledge. And the remembrance is mostly an unwelcome reminder of your passing, of being no more. There is no miracle, or surgical enhancement that will turn the eyrie doings of that person now long gone or bring back the splendour, or the fiery dawns. Nothing will get you back, not the memories of those short hours under the shower that made you wonder about the great singer you would become. The lights remain, now hidden, or turn to sunsets. Even talent is a burden, when only pain can make a poem great. The wisdom of years has never, in the west been revered only death,