Sometimes I refer to myself as a patient man. I know better.
"Whatta' I want?"
"Peace and love!"
"When do I want it?"
Seems to me that the cosmos has conspired to teach me patience. Now, dreams don't die. Sometimes they move seven hundred, or so, miles up the highway. If loss brings despair, maybe patience brings hope.
So the radio signal grows weaker and the muse fades from a gossamer dream to a sweet geographic void. Somehow, with a heart full of hope for whatever the future brings, I smile for her fantasies.