We are close now. Our new home is waiting for us. Woodstock. The rent is paid & the power is turned on. All we have to do is show up & place our things around the room in a way that is satisfying. In a way that is comfortable. It is only for a short time. It's all a very short time. I can't afford to look backwards. Back there, behind me, is a pasture of wasted time. A field of bad ideas. That is how it has worked for me. But, I guess, to some degree, it has worked. I wouldn't recommend this process. I wouldn't want to start over or "do it again". I am closer to the end than the beginning. Maybe in the middle? It's the end that counts...I guess. How could I even pretend to know. Every obscure move leads to the next shadowy event. We walked uphill through a mile of stone. The joke of stone. Girardi. Harris. Petrosco. Lynch. Angels. Crosses. We infuse the strangest meanings to our existence. What could all of that possibly mean to the tenants of that bizarre arrangement. We walked uphill to the end & looked out on to Binghamton. We could see a college & endless places to eat. Freeways. A hammer echoed across the graveyard & three men in the distance could be seen repairing a roof. The echoes of the hits did not match their movement. The sound arrived later. Much, much later. Just like it all always does.

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