The nights are getting longer again. I give the radio dial a twist and then let it be. It plays static over the swinging ghost of big band. I imagine a man asleep on his work papers. Heavy head resting on the drafting table with the lamp head twisted away. The house has old wood paneling and it’s warm. He dreams about a frozen winter cave. Blues gently refracting off the ice. Outside through the frenzied snow a caldera lake. Its surface smooth as glass and unmoved by the wind. I try again to tweak the dial, but its only static both ways. Its attrition consumes the orchestra until it is no longer there. I think the static lives between the channels eating old sounds. As my eyes glazed I realized that outside this room, the world might not exist.