She is, you know, bound up in all that, that mess you call your life and your rules and regulations for living it. To visit her is to travel, to see her is to be in flux, and traveling has always held a mysterious magic for you, a subtle shifting of commonly accepted beliefs that occurs only when you’re on a train in a foreign land, an opening up of the spiritual pores, just wait a moment, just hold on, I thought I knew that that was impossible, looking through a window at a scene that ceases to exist a moment after it rushes by, a village, a man standing in a field, a tree, rolling hills, forests, smoke stacks, cafes, bicycles, dogs, signs, women, a scene you’ve never seen before and will never see again…and she’s a part of that world. The steady thrum of possibility, pulsing behind all things, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Is this real, or is this a dream? What am I capable of? What things are out there, waiting to be seen?