Fire and ash and a million miles that separate. A goal in mind to undo all the things that tied this knot in the first place. A fish place. A dentist’s office. A yoga studio on the third floor downtown. The river and all it’s movement. The banners on the wall on the way out. A smoked cigarette. A ball of twine and a piece of foil. Under the earth and across the interstate. Go there. See the sights and snap twenty-four pictures on the disposable. Send the whole thing in to get developed while you sit at home and regress. Throw all the pictures into an album and try to get it to play with that broken needle. Seven times around and you’ll still be tired. Tired and hopeless and wandering around like you’ve lost something you were never meant to find. This will be the beginning. The beginning and the end. This is the present and it’s neatly wrapped in cellophane and you’ll never find it because it was never hidden. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It’s just simply something that cannot happen. It’s time. Time and money and a hot dog stand and some monk handing you some shiny token in exchange for your twenty dollar bill. Take it. Put it in your wallet that you wanted so bad. Put it in there and forget about it until you find it years later and it reminds you of all those things you did when you were younger. This will be your path. Make sure you shovel.