"There is a man in London who screams when the church bells ring..."

H.P. Lovecraft

      Every day, as I was riding the train to work (always on the left side, to watch the ominous Chicago skyline grow larger in my window), we would pass a flyover. Underneath the ceiling of concrete and steel lived three homeless men. Every day I would watch them start to rise from their beds (they all had well made beds) or cook whatever food they had over a garbage can bonfire. It was in the afternoon, coming home from work early one day, when I say the railway employees sweeping up the last few remnants of their residency.

Highlands of Scotland. South of Skye. Early Morning.
      Raining, as it did every morning. Narrow blacktop flanked by mountains on either side. Mountains, in every shade of green and purple, down from which wisps of clouds and mist roll and dance, whose unseen summits may very well reach infinite heights. Loreena McKennett playing over my headphones. If I could have been a part of that... leave everything behind and soar up that landscape... be the wind itself... find the source of what I was feeling for this place. My family complains about the seating arrangements on the bus. They wonder why I drink heavily around them.

      Back on the train. A typical, overworked, middle class, middle-aged man is standing on the platform with his four year old son, whose eyes are squinted, impatiently searching. The man points at something behind the boy, a woman exiting the train. He whirls around on his heels, his face undergoing a complete transformation, and he runs wildly towards her. If I could describe the look on that man's face as his son leaped into his mother's arms... I would be a much better writer. Perfect and absolute happiness. As if in that one moment... every dark thought and painful stress melted away and became meaningless... in that one moment of joy.

I would like to think there is good in this world.

I would like to think that.