That winter, letters went unwritten, books unread, roads unexplored. I waited in a small, darkened house, at the periphery of an unknown realm; I waited not knowing what I waited for.

So I meditated on blank walls and crooked dress-seams; hummed to the spirits of my past; preferred to play in dreams; frittered away the hours in absurd labyrinths.

One day a window cracked, from within or without, who knows, what matters is this: a wound had opened, a peephole onto an exotic exterior. When I looked, I saw the world: streets teemed; a river rushed seaward; birds bounced in the sky, upward and onward.

The house shattered, into rain or tears, and melted away. A crossroads appeared, accompanied by the healthy clamour of unrestrained activity and movement.

Which road to choose? There were many, each one as crooked and multi-forked as the others; each one would lead to more houses and more gates and more tests of faith and purpose.

I hesitated, of course, before I chose a road and put my foot out, to try, and try, and try again.

The unhappy have but hours, and these they lose.-Dryden.

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