I'm waiting for the moment when the attic is torn away. I'll sail over the mountains. Northwest. And land in England for a while.

Go dancing. Sit by a fire. Laugh and conspire about pirates.

But the likelihood of that happening. Unfortunately. I have no need of accountant Micheal's predictions. Or what about anyone else's predilections. If only easyjet would come down in price. But then. That problem. The friend gender engenders questions on one end, though I'm fine and dandy. (Too fine? No. Enough.) The right amount to keep the tension a taut line, because tension keeps you grounded, keeps you real.

In the meantime, I'm just the distant observer. Ever looking in?