Each and every day, the dead call from their graves: if we could find the way again, any way in the darkness here, we’d take it. We’d take the moments you reject, your suffering and your regrets, we’d saddle up in armour bright to fight the coming of the night to know that we are fighting. We’d tuck our knees chin to chest in corners rocking back and forth to fret on moments lost, if only we had moments left to lose. And this morning I saw three balloons set against the chilly blue which had me running harder past walkers and their dogs and lovers of early icy air who smiled at simply being there. You know this is one way to live a life even without space and pressed for time because it is a life. There are balloons way up high with brave folk in flight there before the sun has even climbed above the horizon. We still have legs to run, to rouse ourselves from sleep to gather years in teetering piles and, like those brave balloonists, see for miles and miles.