Little black symbols paint syncopated rhythms as my fingertips pause between sentences, returning faithfully to J and F, a force of habit gained from long practice.

Dreams are our futures  sharing with our pasts, and we their interpreters, frustrating the first  and misunderstanding the latter. We rewrite our pasts  every time

You’ll be pulled in the wake of the truth future brings, where the ghost of reality waits in the wings.

Can you hear us, stranger? Can you hear us, friend? The thoughts at your temples, the love in your heart, the will to remember, the capacity to overcome, the things you will make, the paths you will take, your life from outside of yourself?

If there is one thing left after we’re gone,  one small thing that matters, even an echo in a canyon,  even a faint scent on a breeze, then we haven’t lived in vain,  have we?