The Weeping Song. The last song of the night. Time to go home. Home. Time to go. The record spins on the turntable. Focus. The only light is the light on the end of the tone arm, illuminating a minute circle of bobbing vinyl. This is the Weeping Song. He raises his glass. He looks at it closely. He examines it. Maybe it holds some kind of secret. Perhaps an answer to a question he hasn’t thought of. The contents are emerald, precious, glinting in that tiny light, the only light in the bar, the only light in the world.