i rode in at 5:30 am: the sun had not yet risen, nor the moon yet set. this is a magical time. the waning notes of cinco de mayos’ Supermoon guided me toward the strip, like moth to flame. i passed the symbolist-painted transformer, my favorite; i passed the solar panel — he, too, tricked into following Bright Moon. i passed the museum of desert atomic testing, UNLV, and best of all: the clowns of 5 a.m. who are they? in truth, they are you. they are me. moreso a me of yesteryear, but a Me nonetheless. as ladies, they are the partygone, the cocktaildresses, the layer upon layer of makeup and desperation that can be read like hieroglyphics of the full evening just past. women perch on the thinnest of heels, baudy grins, coarse declarations of inebriation. as men they rest against the lights of cop cars, arranged in inconvenient poses, the relaxation of the guilty. at 530 am in Las Vegas you find Our Village Idiots. filthy angels, each one, dancing to welcome the bleary fresh day. We need you more than ever. Carry on.