At seven fifteen I am the first one on the job, smoking and still in the truck, insulated and waiting for the music to atomize. It is the beginning of my nine hundred and fifty fourth day sober. The sun has not yet cleared the trees, and there is no one back home sleeping warm in my bed. I realize I do not want this job anymore. The mason hasn't shown up yet, his mortar would probably freeze today anyway. The guitars shatter, the music comes apart again, I squint through the light coming through the naked trees. I am doing everything I need to be doing at the moment. I do not even roll the window down for the smoke to escape. I'm only writing this because I'd like to show you how it is.