351 04 46

We get delayed. We keep saying, soon, tomorrow will I write those words about those days. When they are fresh. When they are at the forefront of the mind. When you can picture the joke of a guy beside you who talked out loud on the flight home and pulled out his Ipod stopwatch to time the moments from liftoff to landing in seconds (39.39.99 - Ottawa TO). When you remember the surrealism of Blarney sinking the cigarette into Lucky Ron's guitar on the last line of Tillsenberg. How Hamana and Hungoose never broke character at the Brig. Of the best view in the capital where we will one day stage Shakespearean histories. That pint of Tennant's. That Warhol shot of the suicide beauty at one with the automobile. The Iglinton 4.12 to Pearson. All the minutes of a vagabond weekend to be recorded.

He had it right when on a tombstone he wrote: why is it that you never write?

One hundred years from now. And so care not, and move. . .