The mind conjures up a Sunday evening. Sitting by the river front, perhaps across the bay, a patio laid with wooden boards, some grass around it and smooth pebbles of cold white marble drawn from a river bed. Watch the boats return from a sojourn, light emanating from the tall glass buildings on the other side. The deep sky a brilliant hue, crimson now, violet then, a spattering of misty clouds streaked across the wide canvas. The air just nippy enough to tingle one's toes as it twirls around bare legs, lying on the crisp cotton bedsheets laid out on the couch. Some Sarah Mclaghlan, Travis, REM, Floyd, Annie Lennox gently crooning inside the amber hued room. Perhaps, a fusion of Talvin Singh, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Michael Brooks could do too...earthy songs, sufi mystic, deep vocals...The world of written words of another time, another city left behind, as one gently returns to the present and lets it seep into one's spirit, like wine that draws strength from the wood of its cask, brought out once in a while to catch the warmth of the setting sun to give it the perfect blend. Time, the fourth dimension overwhelms the other three and yet time, that does not know where else it could belong, but this moment. Here, now, is where you belong, for tomorrow is another worry and it does not matter if you had a fast depleting bank balance, or that people were slowly drifting away, perhaps, on one of those very yatches across the bay, their course set. It does not matter that you are away from where you began this journey, and all that remain are memories that you bracket into something called childhood. And that you are still away from time that calls upon you for a debt that you must pay back and pehaps sell your soul so you could...

Here, now is where you belong....