I’m trapped in the lure of false symbolism. I like the sound of “the last three miles” and I think it should *stand* for something. It doesn’t. Those miles aren’t the first or the last. They are just miles. 

I want to be wrapped in the hero’s musical crescendo, when the minor chords of the crisis-of-morals moment have smoothed into the inevitable assent into greatness that we all attain in moments. I’m just singing in the car, in the key of Heather which remains largely undefined. 

I want to look you in the eyes and say,”I see you.” When the very best I can hope for is “I see what you are willing to show me through my own filters.”  

Apparently, I am also trapped in the ennui of a 22 year old closet poet (20 years too late). 

Suffice it to say. Today is one day, tomorrow is another, and from there on out we can make it up as we go along.