Tomorrow Came

But did I roll over in bed to smell the sweet lilac scent of Andy McDowell's long black wavy hair splayed out across her pillow? I think not. Ipso facto: I think, therefore I go.

(I did enjoy a very comfortable night's rest in the plush guestroom bed at Frank's house. Thank you Frank.)

The commuter train rolls out of Punksatawny on this fine sunny morning - the next day, a day Bill Murray's struggle to achieve made for a great film plot. On the 9:48 am train I have escaped the commuter rush. The jovial chit-chat of retirees and ladies en route to a relaxed day of shopping in the big city flutter up to me from below. I prefer the upper catwalk section of these commuter trains and so sit perched above all others. I have the upstairs to myself. The car smells of plastic and cranked up air conditioning. My "ginormous" backpack takes up an entire seat behind me.

I watch the auto shops and pizza joints and car lots and clean industry of suburban Illinois race by like images in a non-sequential flipbook and try not think about the complex of trains, subways, shuttles and airplane that will compise my entire day. I am thankful merely to be moving.

Moving, after all, it what I do best. - RSM
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