The carpet felt good under his feet as Gerry walked the path of the loft. It had been cheap, just a remnant, and a deep blood-red that nobody seemed interested in having anymore. Up there, though, in the dim light, the color had been perfect. The shag was deep, long enough for Gerry to dig his toes in, or spend hours distractedly twiddling when he was stretched out on top of it, but it tended to catch on the unfinished bottoms of the sliding doors something terrible. Most times, it made for a good deterrent when a mind started offering up ideas about digging into the past. That day, however, the door slid aside with surprising ease.

Gerry looked down at the carpeting and shook his head. Fucking figured.

In the storage area rested a Bankers box. It was nothing fancy, in the least. The plain brown corrugated board with its olive-green stenciled letters, its beat-up edges, and worn handle holes gave no suggestion to the circus it held inside it: magazine articles, photos, both personal and professional, notes, hand-written lyrics and scraps with random phrases, printed press releases and programs. Somewhere in the depths of the paperwork rested a gold straw, and a single earring that looked like a disco ball, each facet a true-to-life diamond, set in gold. He'd only had the earring out twice, and both times had been to gaze at the costly trinket and consider its worth. The first time he'd been freezing, with no money to put oil in the furnace. The second time was when his car had died the week after getting his new job. But the earring had always made it back into the box. He'd never been able to gather the nerve to sell it.

The day wasn't about clinging to tangible valuables, though. It was about seeking out the intangible ones -- the thrills, the emotions, and the memories -- and trying to make sense of the dreams that had haunted him through the night. Why now? To what end?

Gerry stared at the box, sighed heavily, and then, as if directing the question to the closet, "You really want to do this, Ger?"

The box did not reply. Instead, his mind offered up a beautiful face and a not-altogether-endearing smirk. That image flopped into one of Gerry's chairs, and waved a long-fingered hand in the air at the dust that rose. The light of the room highlighted a gold taffeta jacket and the dark red velvet pants matched the color of Gerry's carpeting perfectly. The imagined dust dissipated, the figment's expression shifted into a mask of innocent patience, and it spoke. "Well, of course you're going to do it, Fawn. You never could stay away."

Gerry lifted his chin and clamped his teeth together. Even in imagination, a prick was a prick. "I don't know about that, space queen. I've been gone for a hell of a long time."

He almost felt the brush of the hand that he visualized, as the ghost of the former Maxx Starlight was suddenly behind him. It whispered in Gerry's ear in a voice so soft it could have been a breeze. "What makes you think I would ever believe you to be gone?"

Gerry spun so fast he almost lost his footing. "I don't give a flying fuck what you think, Maxx Starlight!" He took a deep breath and glared at the empty room. "Stupid Goddamn Mark Fucking Devon. Prince of Suck My Dick. Queen of Sell Outs. Loser Extraordinaire!" He caught himself, reined back his voice, and laid both palms against his belly in what he hoped would prove to be a soothing gesture.

"Losing it," he mumbled. He was standing naked in his loft and yelling at empty spaces. He was probably scaring every dust bunny in the place. He snorted at his thought and shook his head. "Yep. Definitely losing it."

He didn't bother to look back at the closet. He merely reached behind him, shoved the sliding door closed with far more force than necessary, and left the loft.