By the time you read this, I'll likely have awakened, groggy and cotton mouthed, possibly in the back seat of my car, and in any case almost certainly wearing the clothes I wore the night before. I'll be somewhere on Interstate 64, or maybe 95, headed to my current home from my once and future.
I'm certain to have heard and told stories that I've long ago memorized, remet and remembered people I'd long forgotten, and walked in a younger version of my own footsteps. I'll have mini-summited, drank beer out of plastic pitchers, laughed, laughed, and laughed.
I'll be there.