Late one night in a hotel room somewhere, Bobby awoke to Garcia sitting on the edge of the bed; he was backlit by the moon, and the fire he had accidentally set.
“Um, Jer…?” Bobby mumbled.
“The thing about life, Bob: no matter how nice the view, there’s only one window.”
And then he got up and walked out of the room. The next morning, Bobby thought it had been a dream, except for all the cigarette burns in the carpet.