And there he was, sitting on your couch, showing as a reflection of the past the trash you turned into when John told you he couldn't do it anymore.

The mistakes of a corrosive past but still alive, united in a look at the still happy present.

He was sure that he loved John and that John loved him. Until that new year...

<em> Why was she still looking at the sodden sidewalk with people running around with their colorful umbrellas? </em>

<em>" John ran his fingers over one more star, prying it easily from the top, dropping it into the bag attached to his ladder." </em>

<em> And the young man's fingers ran slowly and skillfully over the thin strings of a chipped wooden guitar, with some writings, some stickers, things that denounced its extensive time of use. </em>