I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."




Oh, Kurt. Bingo.

"It's your little red wagon and you gotta pull it."


That's what he said. It was mine. A fiery chariot filled with dreams of a place far away. A land where people smiled from castles made of air - tall and intangible. Bricks made of whispers and wonders. The mortar mixed from laughter and light.

The wheels were squeaky, but the rust was nothing to my childish mind. Imagination was the oil of my steed. Cracks in the concrete became great chasms, but my will alone flew us across their weed entangled maw with the methodical chant of my magics - kathunk, kathunk.

I filled the red lipped ends with promises of quiet tomorrows - a glittering sword that gave strength and power to an otherwise weak, sad, tiny little boy with too much brain. Duct tape and a little perception created the sharpest blade. All of that and a metallic shield that once contained the garbage of my enemies, but now protected me from them.

It all rested at the bend of the block. That is where the threshold lay.

And he said, "It's your little red wagon and you gotta pull it."