That tunnel opened and yesterday I took it and thought of you and our little subterranean adventure with all the sepia hues that memory can afford. And I have to admit that it saddened me and blanched my skin, as it slipped under all that make believe light: after all that time, so many lights and years, we became just rock and dirt, a memory for the keeping. And then the Gore Hill loomed and the sun, so low and near its end, shone lightly on my face, chipping at the rue. And I believed, or listened, to that little voice, resonating through all that blood and bone, it has travelled me so, little little scars, and it spoke of the past, much like the tunnel, fixed and unfixable, and of the uncertainty of the lay, the unexpected, the closeness of new intimacy. That thing, delivered by old sun, delicious and engaging, slate and past, is no tunnel, is no linear fold. No. It is exemption, the get out of jail free, not judge nor jury; but a glimpse of all that may or may not become. It is choice and consequence and love. It is air, free to breathe and trackless.

Yesterday I did not take the quick way home, through the harbour tunnel  and yet more perpetual sameness, I chose the airy path and wallowed in all the curiosity of that beautiful landlocked bridge, and the view it so reluctantly yields; and I felt I connected, for just a breath or two, with the millions and millions of stories, much like this one, my very own, the weight of the city and all the lumbering hearts, so effortlessly borne.