Streetlights make me think of the stars shining so brightly that I could walk forever and never get lost.

I'm a child at a concert, lulled by the music, and when it's finished I follow my father slowly out of the auditorium into the night air. The lights dazzle my drowsy eyes as I climb into the back seat of the car.

I'm an adult in New York City, and the lights never turn out. They stay shining all night long, and if I peer out the blinds I can see all the way to the corner with shadows every few bricks of sidewalk.

I'm driving my wife to the hospital; it's three in the morning and we're about to have our third child. The lights pass across our face as we rocket down the highway; she's calm and determined.

I look out the window of the rehab hospital, wondering how I got there, how long it will take me to get out, what I can do to get back to my family. The lights make crescents of light in the absolute blackness of the rural hospital grounds. I can see someone walking in the distance, an orderly, a security guard. I sigh and remember that's it's Christmas, one I'm missing.

I'm running in the pre dawn morning, the rain pelting down cold, my dog trailing behind me, and I'm counting the street lamps until I've gone far enough to where I can turn around and head towards home again. I've almost gone far enough. There aren't any cars; there's no one outside. It's just me and the dog.

One night I'll be a patient in a hospital, looking out a window to a street lamp illuminating the darkness outside. I'll close my eyes one last time.