Neil Young's Rust Never Sleeps is on now and the air is turning cool, carrying with it autumn's first exhalations. Something in it all takes me back to being a kid--red shag carpet absorbing guitar distortion, the dance of leave-shadows against the golden sun flowing over floor, surrounded by my own private pantheon of faces masked in brilliance--Dylan, the Beatles, Hendrix, Zeppelin, the Dead--the safety of my headphone-electric-womb world, the fragile security of the fleeting moment, now suddenly flooding the mindscape with bittersweet sensations. (If only Proust owned a copy of American Beauty!) The weary load loosed once more.