Seventy five at least, before I check out. In an ALiner. In the better parts of what they call the four corners states, or adjacent tierra like Alpine, Texas, Lone Pine up along the 395, or that one jewel of a town in Wyoming on the way to Yellowstone.

Home away from whatever Home there is at the time.

Deep in the Vānaprastha, in the abstract way of looking at it, and full propane tanks in the concrete mundane

at the center of it all.

I’m not forgetting about the other utilities, like prescription sunglasses or slowing the roll of touch deprivation or renewing a license to drive. But I am letting them float around in orbit of the main thing.

On Neptune, from whence come all Brides, the storms are not like the great red spot of Jupiter, persisting throughout lifetimes.

Rather, they come and they go like we do, every few years, on Vedic time.

The trans-Uranian storms exist, shockingly, for seasons of time almost accessible from a mortal human scale; perspective.

Prytty little things. Artful scraps of prættig.

Reflections of the turbulent nature of the narrative self.

Where the winds can blow at 1300 miles an hour, for real.

The I Ching saith: ‘If a man is free of vanity he is able to conceal his abilities and keep them from attracting attention too soon; thus he can mature undisturbed’.

Purple Sage.