In this art space the corners are all filled with broken glass and bottle caps, and I wonder just what it is I’m supposed to be doing here.  All these dreams of lost time, and missed events in far away states and provinces, and the trips that have been booked are all racked up on my credit card.  The limit of this plastic money lender is not the least of my worries for we’ve got plenty of time to chip it away.

All these expenses, these timely new friends and foes that have filled my belly and helped my ears and eyes experience more, all these expenses, are now welcome and at the same time completely inevitable.

7 minutes and counting, and I’m just thinking about numbers.  The addition of the sequences of days and dates that somehow add up to mean something to the most observant and the very absent of us.

In essence this whole life of mine has been building figure on top of figure, adding up to 9 and then coming back down to 0 once again.

Most of you don’t think about these digets, these numbers are strains on our fingers and fuel for our calculators.

But it’s 2 more hours until we’re all the way in Burnaby