It was an uncertain Tuesday. Tousle-haired, bleary-eyed, undone, maybe a miniature waterfall of drool forming at the corner of your mouth, yet with flashes of big ideas requesting visitation papers to be presented to the right cerebellum. Yeah, we’re talking about a distinctly personalized mystical motivation, with cathode light beams stored in your brain overnight, like some neon sandwich you can’t digest. What’s for brunch? Damp coffee grounds left outside on the morning sidewalk of everyday. Our see-through mode of transport deposited us at a place called: Here. Now arriving at the historic pressure palace. Remembering paths not taken, letters never mailed. We’re both half-dressed, but we head out the door anyway. You grasp my hand and we walk up a winding path, up and over the hillside. In the distance the band began playing. Unforgettable notes pilfered from angel’s wings, cymbals bang and clatter, guitars weave melodies seemingly unheard before. Off in the corner dancing is the gypsy she-swirler, with flaming dark tresses. She who embodies the future of us all, as long as we’re no longer willing to stall. Not even for a single second. You smile up at sunlit tree shadows close by, and the moment stretches on forever.