the strength tarot card shows a balance of the aspects of you that are human, animal and divine. it may seem impossible but love, kindness and a brave heart can bring them into balance.

his first thought is that her dress is a crime against humanity.

his second thought is that he's dead.

(alcohol, a divorce, and a ceiling fan.

how ironic, though he didn't write the lyrics.)

he's standing in what looks like an l.a. alley, graffiti and trash bags and all.

there's a girl there, looking not a day past twenty-five. she's wearing the worst dress he's ever seen, all gaudy and bright.

he says so.

the girl laughs. “it was the seventies, kid. dignity wasn't invented yet.”

then he asks what he's doing here.

a pause, and the girl's eyes bore into him, and they seem to dig out his personality, put it out on a plate.

“you're jealous, kid. in the interviews, they never seem to pick you. they gravitate to your brother, made of makeup and anger and angst. he's a stage kid, born to wear his heart on his sleeve. he's a messiah for the disillusioned, the voice everyone needs. you just slink back and play your bass and try not to feel anything. you fade away, while he burns bright.”

it hits him like a weight to his chest, but it feels like a heavier weight is taken off at the same time.

it puts his life out, uncorks the bottle of emotions.

the girl starts to smile. “i've been there, love. you know what i learnt?”

“what?”

“we all go to hell, in the end. and this is your hell. doomed to walk the earth, existing in shades of spirit and shadow. i expect she does too.”

he wonders who she is.

she shoves him, gently. “have a good life, mikey way. i'll see you in a century, if we're both lucky. and we both know that ain't the case.”

and then the girl is gone, and he's left in the l.a. evening, pinks and purples and a feeling of chrysalis.

he walks down the winding alley and embraces the rising moon.