There is a river running through me that keeps me quite sure, despite disproving evidence in science and philosophy, that there is a rhyme to all of this, there is a story being told, there is something being orchestrated. It is in the ringing of my heart when I sit with a dear friend, easy and kind. It is in the sweetness of sunday walks, the returning of spring, the city of people that keep me standing. It is in the funny phrases that wake me up and compel me to create. It is in the writing or whispering of your name; it makes me sure, very sure, that this river is leading somewhere.