In my imagination there are a million and one things I would do. Like everyone I would invent a machine and traverse time. I would run faster than a speeding bullet and in that way service gun control. I would hike through the Himalayas and heal children with herbs. I would ride a Harley through the Sahara with nothing on but an angel above my head. I would raise monkeys in a mountain valley. I would grow a garden and guard endangered species. I would skip rather than walk. I would skip work and make love instead. I would be a rock star. I would grow wings and fly. I would fly to the moon and wave to passengers in planes. I would create a device to download dreams and I would make movies from memories. Or, I would write a book. Yes, I would write just one book, and it would be distributed in many chapters. And at the back of the book, like an epilogue, there would be a phone book. It would be thicker than the book itself. Numbers would need to be exchanged and strangers would be obliged to meet in order to read the rest. And people would want to read the rest. Because it would be surprising, and graceful and provocative and poetic, and touching and human and animal and daring and darling and peaceful and quiet and dangerous and magical and lovely. And people wouldn’t just meet to pass the chapters through the brushing of sleeves; with the pages they would pass a quick glance and a smile, a smile of what? that would travel through the very depths of the person they were meeting for the very first time. And in that quick glance - for they both had places to go and things to do - there would be a million meetings. There would be untold secrets and confessions and embraces of lost family and found friends, colleagues and competitors, traitors, lovers, teachers. And though just a peek, it would dive like a diamond through layers of lives lived and that would count as a looking. Some might even notice a moment of stillness where neither ripple nor wave washed over either, and in that noticing there would grow a smile. And in that smile – a smile of what? there would be no pretense of knowing why, but there would be a knowing nonetheless - a knowingless knowing that didn’t need to know which side of the fence they were standing on, or in what shoes they stood. Some would embrace but it would be brief, because they would not pretend they were not strangers, but in that brief moment arms would wrap aeons. In that simple exchange of papers passing through hands without tax or bargain or any numbers but phone numbers, worlds would hover, poised between rise and fall, between hello and good-bye, between prologue and sequel. Beyond that there would be a murmur in the ethers - an energetic language speaking nothing of ideas and imposing nothing of feelings. It would be something untouchable, something unnamable, something sublime and complex, something magic and gentle, something funny and vital and necessary and forgiving and surely something much lighter than nothing and much more weighted than the sum of All Things. And it would be running off the gutters and spilling into the streets. It would be blowing leaves from trees and slowing their fall to the ground. Yes, it would be a storm of sorts. It would be a quiet invasion. It would be a sweeping. It would be a brushing. And a clearing. Or a Dusting. And a dying. But also a building. It would be a becoming. Also a being. And a bowing. It would be a singing. And a softening. And a surrendering. And a seeing.