Lucille would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you.     What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? -- It's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture benath the skies.     On the piano a horn sat; its golden shadow made a strange reflection along the desert caravan painted on the wall behind the drums. God was gone; it was the silence of his departure. It was a rainy night. It was the myth of a rainy night.     It was sad to see his tall figure receding in the dark as we drove away, just like the other figures in New York and New Orleans: they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned -- Where go? What do? What for? -- sleep. But this foolish gang was bending onwards.