It’s high noon in Brooklyn but its always midnight on southern, dead end suburban streets. Here, there is total silence except for the house at the very end, where inside a tin roof garage, teenagers are kissing for the first time. The humidity is too great, the boys peel off white t’s and the girls cheeks are flushed, beet red under the garage’s two fluorescent stripes. In a pond behind the house an alligator waits for a snow birds’ Pomeranian to take its night stroll. A child is sleep walking for the first time. Some one is running away for the last time. The music is too loud on the 12 D battery boom box radio, the cops are on their way. It’s at this moment you hear the music of Twin Shadow on a radio station transmitting suburban ghost dreams that sound like a slow motion shot of a cannon, singing about spirits, visions, and aural hallucinations cutting through the first American night.