Something the world will pay a dollar for a million times over and a million times again and you have your house in France for a year, even two and trips across the Mediterranean to Crete with the children in tow like happy kites flapping against the vivid blue and white. It’s sad this fantasy I have of time veering off its tracks and taking flight and exploding high above our heads in never ending Catherine wheels of light. And that space might ease its weight from my chest and yours, its rock on rock compress released and we breathe in great lungs of it facing the flat blue skating seas of some exotic shore. I love this life we have – the wall still not painted, the Diego Rivera print crooked more than a year and you asleep half-aware as my trailing fingers gently scratch your leg, the children having eaten up another day dreaming in their beds. But it’s there this dream, this vision that has broken through the stormy fabric of the day like a rainbow gorgeously insubstantial of us living in Europe for a while on the money the world provided because it wanted to and could. Just something the world will pay a dollar for a million times over and a million times again and there you have it and who can say that the right words won’t arrange themselves one day?