I shall see her again. I know that in my heart. One last time. Until then, I shall continue to send people to her.

 

 

I’ve seen the reverberating sweat of Muse, touched the snowy crevasses of Mount Rainier, and smelt the condensing fogs of the San Juan Islands. Within me, each morning, I tell myself stories that escape the bitter futilities of breathing in cold air, and they evaporate as unconscious shadows of the morning mists. It is, after all, the right season, for mists and mellow fruitfulness. I am in a moment of honest transient happiness, and that is all that matters sometimes. (smiley face)