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Illustration 1: Timely the physical body on the wing of an intercontinental aircraft, in the crosshairs, and subject of parallax, where

hemisphere distinct the body of water in


contrast to the vacuum of space. Then, such as contrails, the cloudy spirit adrift behind, in an attempt to keep up, an elasticity for a latent catch-up high speed journeys.

Addendum:
While every effort is made by the principal author to create short, self-sustained chapters,
unique story, in some cases particular terms or words may lose their meaning imbued in a
metaphysical context, in precedent articles, excerpts, related and ongoing elaborating stories,
elsewhere.
Sentient of a time glass running sand, while in my strides I pursued through zigzagging corridors the
'Heathrow' overhead signs, until I veered left heading into the departure concourse in view of a
prolongation of translucent bright British Airways colors over check-in counters. In the row of abutted
head of queues satiates my curiosity arising the thought of crossing the trailing sporadic uncountable
travelers which crowded by the tails in a mass.
Thoughtful, over an hour passed since my arrival on a Pan Am flight from New York, in an apparent
'exposition hall,' bogged down in my first strides on a scheduled stopover, the crowds gnawed my
patience. I came out amidst of a funneling swarm of yearend travelers. On my way toward a central
alleyway of representative countries, by the overhead translucent fascias flagging brands of airline
carriers. As I ventured in a change of course, snatched an attendant on standby, and addressed, in his
course of duty replied, "Don't take this lane Go over the other side!"
A simple directive implanted in mind, motivating sight, sweeping off over my right shoulder at
outreaching. Wondering over an intermediate chock-a-block floor. Leaving in a turning circle a young
man besides me straddling over luggage, a surprising similarity folding cart trailing as I headed off.
Pressing my way with interactive feet quasi melted into the vinyl floor covering, from which I had lifted
a questioning look, 'Where to go now?' I headed by sight skimming heads which churns out a vague
image. Displacing a packed crowd, people's predicament dropping an ascetic regards toward my leashed
calf bloated suitcase plowing in my wake. In my search across to the other side of the hall, at matching
up the attendant's mind sketched instructions, from a fuzzy crowd emerged a distinct information stall
and arrived butting the counter and hurdle from proceeding in a bind beyond the ground steward.
Accosting the man in the South African Airway uniform. The instant his eyes peeled my lost look, he
repeats the words I heard before, with an out the way hand sways. Neglecting to hear me out, he frays
my way onward.
Gauging by the absurd mob at the check-in counter, at the fall of a thought, pointing my eyes,
expressing a preemptive taking my lagging luggage off my hand, I asked, "Can't I leave this here
somewhere '" holding my place in the line?' The steward standing anticipative stoic by conviction, while
he answers, "No! We have no room," I hailed at the crowd in the foreseeable British Airways check-in
hall, "Excuse me let me through!"
Entering the secluded area, up to a thick black mustache bar a pale face, my eyes calling my
crossing. Responsive, his slim figure kicking a bag making space by the crowded feet. Motivated, he
alloted a gap behind and eliciting a latent daydreaming young girl pacing further back for my trailing
bag. I tracked my way by sporadic glazed lost looks, at random stir figures in the clearing of my path.
In view of the thinning crowd, resilient, I let my imagination on the run by a middle aged woman,
enticing her in the passing, saying, "I'll be back don't move it'll only be a moment!"
Breathing in my stride through a virtual deserted Tax Free mall. Peering wayside finding the stores
which absorbed trickling shoppers. I plowed sight into the busy signs lining the walls and vanishing in
the depth of the concourse, non of the sought after read, 'Currency Exchange.' in my trek called to stop,
as my fingers hurt to the bone. Feeling blood circulating through the palm of my hands, I survey behind
inquiring into my course, onto timing my journey back. Thoughtful over unaccountable hurdles, the four
hours to kill sufficed before boarding my flight. I relinquished the urgency, while rest wasn't on
rendezvous, before assured of holding my boarding ticket at hand.
Reckoning with stealth hazards, by the glints of an assuring turquoise sheen, in my approaching pace
constraint my forging a change of course. I watched behind the armored glass, the bust of a fat man

secluded in a booth. At my turn the figure livening up, his drooping regard lifting off the counter. His
lazy expression engaged, he asks, "Do you want Sterling?"
Sentient of a conspiracy at confusing me, abrupt I replied, "I want pounds!"
Agreed, predictive magic, the hand pushes forth passing bank notes topped with change underneath the
glass. From which hatch, I collected, swinging away count the sixty-two pounds and a few pence with a
trustworthy resonance. With every step mounting a fever of regret, in view of the check-in hall,
furthering a point of no-return, for failing to have checked out the exchange rate on display. In front of
me crowds diverged with resilience in my wake, cooling me down, such as a boulder in a stream. I
plowed forward, shines from the lot the mustached figure. At sight of me kicks his luggage and paces
back. I arrived butting the counter by the officer with the SAA badge. Handed him my former flight
ticket once again. Watched the man's fingers ventilating the flimsy red carbonized slips, scrupulous reexamining as before, while I loosely argued the circumstances for annihilating my stay in London.
Watching with relieve a silent progression in exchange of thirty-five Pounds, a new ticket pen at hand
filled blank spaces, tore off an issued middle slip, and handed me the remainder.
Relieved from the claws of doubt, the crowds mitigating hurdles effaced themselves, as I crossed the
hall to the check-in counter. In a sweep turned away free of luggage, and with a boarding pass at hand.
On my way the duty-free stores latent time, then off the shelves I selected a pair of English key-rings for
Gavin's collection. Elsewhere, mugs with a red heart, at the thought of both my boys sharing drinks
together.
At loss consuming time and strolling by an even spread crowd. The sitting area arising ghosting
familiar shadows among the array seating and tables, which flirt to mind, thoughtful, ' No other than
from a distant stopover?' Leashing bloated a canvass suitcase packed with 'Love New York.' Tee-shirts
gifts destined for the family lodging me while in Johannesburg.
By Paris, prophetic caf on the Champ Elyse, helping myself to a cheese wrapped sandwich and
mug of coffee. Stepping in line behind a West-Indian family, in turn I shift my tray across a set of
copper rails up to the cashier. With more sterling than I can reasonably spend, paid. Rushing off at
forgetting the exorbitant price, absorb on the lookout for a table to enjoy my meal. I came to stand tall
in front of a young woman, asking, "May I?" I insisted, "Can I join you?" A girl's eyes rolled over from
behind the open book at hand. I pointed by sight at the three empty chairs. She smiled a melodious
reply, "Sure!"
Time in front of me, I sat taking bites from the cheese roll at hand, deduce the autocratic character
by the color. Seductive by her wavy black long hair locks over her shoulders. Given to elate at sight. I
stole behind the woman, serving at the counter, her side I left moments before, the busy autochthonic
subservient blond. I sipped coffee, watchful over the open book, the eyes worming down the page. I
oppugned by her silent elegant fine lips, her country in beyond the English isles. My cup empty, the
taste of coffee fading away in my mouth, seeking on an international hub, until by an explosive
curiosity, I asked, "Where are you from?"
"Greece," She said so un-English.
"What brings you here " I asked. Qualifying, "At the airport?"
"I'm waiting for my friend."
Thoughtful, 'A friend can be both ' daring to show inquisitive, 'Boy- or Girl-friend?' and my
blustery mind drops though after though, asking, "And what are You doing here, in England then?"
"I'm a student."
"And, what are you studying for?"
"Engineering."
'Whoa!' I thought from mind contriving a vast discipline, which left echoes to mind Lionel's voice,
"Dad!"

Leading to refrain me form thinking, I asked the young woman, "How long are you here Then?"
Surging nostalgic, and incisive recollecting back home in New York, Lionel's emotive intone after an
hesitant pause at the other end of the phone line, resurgent saying, "Gavin is sick he's gone to bed."
Nana Mouskouri foiling that woman's face, reposing a latent time, replying, "Three months," while
frustrated, I prepared to rise from my seat. A sensory perception frothing, amplifying telepathy, onto
excusing myself. By a mounting anxiety, taking leave from the woman waiting for the long overdue flight
from Greece. I timely pressed my departure on. Strolling away, longing to hunker down and sit each of
my boys on a knee, embracing them as I used to do. Sporadic regurgitating from the past my questioned
words over the phone, "Lionel! But, I've just spoken to Gavin a minute ago! He didn't say there was
something wrong?" Flocking transcendent voices, my psyche prodding, attuning at grasp a profound
resonance of the soul that day, when hesitant Lionel said, "Dad. Gavin is worried!"
'Why? Is Gavin sad,' I asked? With nothing to go on, I questioned, "What is your brother worried
about, Lionel?" Repeating after me, Lionel in a latent tone of voice, not exempt from his proper sense of
anxiety, burst with recurrent lingering words, saying, "I don't know, Dad."
Breaking that emotive virile wall, I asked, "Is it about me, Lionel." the phone line went dead. During
these instances of no forthcoming words, I wondered, 'What is it that you are holding back?' I asked,
"What about you Lionel Are you also worried?" He surges out of the blues, in a little dismissive voice
got to dash aside that affective wall, saying, "Yes, Dad."
'Whoa!' I thought with dry tears to my eyes. 'This is serious How ignorant of me, considered my
boy at my level of maturity?' I hailed in the phone horn, "Lionel!" my boy's silence grew frightful
unbearable, the distance separating us, with a timely three-continent trajectory, for a spur of the moment
comforting, becoming a crucial reality.
"Lionel," I called, thoughtless the words rolled over my lips, fishing in the silence for a break
through, saying, "Understand! One should be more concerned driving a car, or standing at a street
corner, or walk across a traffic light, than it is dangerous to fly!" Sentient of a telepathic freshing, at the
crux, my mother before my boys suscitated the lockerbie Pan Am disaster over Scotland two years earlier.
Feeling the poking anxiety of my boys' at the pit of my chest, my proper analogy of the South African
Airways disappearance in the Indian Ocean, along with the Korean airliner shot down by a MIG over
Soviet territory. Heavy at heart, convincing myself, and feeling I'm wining Lionel over, saying "Airplanes
are relative the safest means of transport Cooks, I'll be there for the New Year." crucial for a psychic
grasp, at touching fear, I said, "Lionel, will you go and call your brother?"
"He's in bed, Dad."
"Lionel! Just go and call your brother to the phone. I want to have a word with him," short of
saying, 'I'm picturing you both, like foiling a reflection through a two-way mirror tacit in a changing
daylight.
Though saddened in the waiting, I seemed to have curred my one boy's melancholy, at holding the
remedy for a dizzy spell, the knots in the stomach of the other, while at the quiescent end of the line
pursuing Lionel on velvet paws, his shadow leaving the telephone behind in the amber bullion niche of
the entrance door sidelights. Ghostly branching off the hallway cold ceramic floor, evanescent on a
carpeted passage down to the boys' rooms. Crying after my 'Cookies,' picturing at the age when I left
their mother, giving among brothers a time exchanging a few words. Gavin arises in the amber light,
with an expressive little voice in turmoil, utter, "Yes Daddy!" I vented my melting heart, "Cooks! Tell
me, are you worried that something is going to happen with the aircraft Well if you are, don't. Don't,
because this is not going to happen."
In a repetition of the law of averages, Gavin broke free with a questioning intonation, saying,
"Daddy " After an instinctive pause, 'Have I got your attention!' He articulates precise heart warming
words, "If you have to stay in London can't you get a flight sooner Will you spend more time with
us Will you stay longer?" Words which nailed me down, in a moment of silence, by magic I watched
my genie ghostly shadow by his side consoling while I said, "Sure, Cooks!" I seized the reality, a
continental triangulation points between international airport, and said, "I'll try to cancel my ten days
stay in London but, I can't promise Cooks, I'll try my outermost!"

That Sunday in my apartment, besides my seat, thoughtful I replaced the cordless Panasonic
handset to the phone cradle on the table, imagining the earliest opportunity at work, to grab the business
phone and call the bureau of the South African Airways in Manhattan.
The next day, at the other end of the line, a man heard me out, to reply, "Put it in writing." I
scribbled his details on a slip of paper and hung up the phone. That evening, arriving home, I flicked
the switch of the Central Process Unit, sitting down, squaring up to the computer screen prompting C/:. I
keyed in WP/M/L and waited for the WordPerfect logo. Flashing 'My Letters' directory, ran the macro
loading the 'Addresses' form, and from my notes, I type:

Robert Adair
South African Airways
900 3rd. Ave., 9th. Flr.,
New York City, NY., 10022
The file registered, while I recollected the morning conversation, calling to screen a formatted letter
inducing the date field, to appear on the page:

New York, [20:31] (Mon) October 23, 1989


Dear Robert Adair,
I found relief from a year long lingering scare, at forgetting the seventy-two hours leeway before the
due departure date. Beginning to request at registering my flight, and in the second part, I asked to rescheduled the stopover. I then revised with the Spell Checker, ran through the Grammatik III application,
onto merging the address, and press send. No sooner the printed sheet out the printer slot, which I
picked up and glanced over, onto folding in three part, while the addressed envelope spilled out the
Okidata laser printer.
In the morning on my way to work, by a postal service, I dropped off the letter. The week passed,
then, by the day I grew anxious by a looming end of the year. I dialed the number on the slip of paper.
No one at reservations was the wiser, and passed my call on. I insisted, saying, "But! What happened to
my letter?" At the other end of the line, a man's friendly voice said, "We haven't received your letter." I
pictured a lackadaisical figure wishful that I hung up my call, which arouse a fever of fury, that he
daren't break the call, much as reluctant to assist beyond the framework of his duty. I repeated in other
words, till annoyed his idle voice said, "Send us another."
In the clutches of a working duty trailing, to sense time fast catching up. in the evening emphatic
sentient sitting trundling underground in a passenger car home to Forest Hill. Rising to street heights
with a raising concern. Wondering in my stride to my apartment. Stepping through the door, and in a
sweep of movements switch on the computer. Sitting to the call on screen of the letter, which hadn't
faded from mind and date rolled anew to, 'New York, [20:18] (Wed) November 15, 1989.' in the heading
from the keyboard, I slotted a phrase for the records, "PS.; This letter is a copy previously mailed."
Overnight peaceful, such as the vent of a printed letter sealed in an envelope, feathery stroking
through my chest over hearty concerns meeting my flight. Thoughtful in the morning, sporadic raised,
over an intuitive well being, I doubtful questioned over meeting the validation date, and willful slipped
the letter into the inner pocket of my black sport's jacket, as I headed off for work.
Arriving at the site office in Queens, and the next day again in the shadow of a cosmic jealousy
floating a veil breaking down a color spectrum of the conjunctive mental mirage. Destined to weathering
the photovoltaic brain function, proper seasoning a recurrent end of the year depleting zodiacal mischief,
while seeking an interstice in my work load. The following afternoon I slip away from site and headed
for the subway station. Standing on the 'Steinway Street' downtown Manhattan platform with a mounting
concern. In wait for the G train, thoughtful over the South African Airways bureau at endorsing my
ticket. Other than the publicity jacket of the issuing Sandton City Travel Agency, denotes the South
African port of first exit. I vented during the year the enclosed flimsy three-part red carbon ticket, until
the date of my last destination is engraved to mind.

The next day in the site office, churning in mind, far from imagining a failed pickpocket
attempt. Earnest and thoughtful, over how easily the plastic jacket containing my documents had
slipped awkward halfway out my inside pocket? When Carmine Vitagliano, the little stubby old man by a
croak speaking through an orange tube stuck in his throat, stepped out. I garbed the moment alone to
dial a call. A man's voice answered at the other end of the line. I asked, "May I speak to Mr. Adair."
"He isn't in right now," the man answered.
Taken in by a fever of impatience, I asked the man, "Well! Maybe you can help me. I lost my ticket
How much does it cost to replace the ticket?"
"Forty-four Dollars, if you have a copy. Otherwise, it will have to be re-issued at the place of
origin."
"Johannesburg!" I exclaim, breezing up the dilemma of a swift closing in fifteenth of December.
Brewing a cosmic misfortune over that 9 pm due departure. Breaking the spell, from missing out sharing
my boys over their end of the year school break. At the end of the line I heard a background keyboard
clicking after spelling out my name. Thoughtful on my case, the SAA officer interrupted, and such as
lingering over a child's absurd story, he said, "We have your ticket here." In a city as vast what rightful
village people live up to. I argued anew from every facet of the possible to the issue of a local replacing
ticket, with the man's voice breaking in, "We have your ticket." at the third resumption, emphatic
saying, "We have your ticket here!" I said, "It impossible!" Requesting the man to double check a
likely other ticket holder, and discrediting, saying, "I lost the somewhere in the streets of New York." He
too, as insistent, persisted, stopped me in my tracks at listening, but not before I waited on line while
perceiving him leaving his chair, walking away in dismay, checking in an adjacent office.
In a comfortable voice, and shadowing in a seat by a desk facing a wall, the SAA officer said, "We
received a letter with the ticket " No sooner arousing the convincing letter, he breaks off, saying, "Hold
on!" The momentary dead line enlivened up by an introductory voice, "Mr. Adair." I argued over the
man saying, "We can't help you change the date of your ticket," to no vain. In my silence, perceiving
the figure peering over the assistant's shoulder, I cower at a lacking goodwill, hearing the far distancing
voice saying, "We'll send the ticket back to you ."
While resonating in from afar Gavin and Lionel's longing plead, through my head echoes Mr. Adair's
alerting words, "We can't help you, unless you upgrade your ticket." Sarcastic, I replied "No! Forget it
then." Dilapidated, I hung up the phone. The SAA rebuke weighs heavy. Relentlessness in mind churns
pieces of a puzzling metaphor, at imagining a generous somebody who found the addressed envelope.
Heading off to a postal service, affix a stamp and drop the letter in a mail box, which kept me
thoughtful for a while, 'That here in New York?'
Contrary to a Southern hemisphere destination at the peak of the holiday season, on this winter day
nearing the end of the year, I arrived with Gail at John F. Kennedy International Airport. I ought not to
be strange to Gail cowering her charismatic personality, having been reared by a philanthropic mother.
Though the extent of Gail's behavior didn't cease surprising emphatic raising a premonitory expression
walking across the departure terminal, fearing of a flight of no-return.
Thoughtful, 'There is nothing to worry about' and in an auspicious tone of voice, I called at her
lingering behind, "I'm only going for a visit to my boys!"
Under her adverse regard, I checked-in my luggage, and headed off with my boarding pass for the
passport control, where she froze by an autocratic pair of security officers. As she stands by melting like
wax in the sun, the officers exchanged a lingering regard. Their eyes rolled on over and across, and such
as a staff member serving at the international tax free stores, their eyes waved her on. She met up with
me, and after a last embrace, we turned away tarrying off.
The winter out, a notion of spring, and in summer dawning slave by Francine's fever crawling under
my skin. Doomed to think, 'Why me Couldn't you have found someone else I don't feature in your
ideals Set thirty-five year threshold for your man How can I ignore feeling that trampoline for
launching your career?' Incapable of shaking her spell, till Wednesday, June 6, which date didn't come
too soon, entering the familiar airport departure terminal. Lingering alone effacing from mind a sticky
experience. In motion my past evanescent behind, pacing into an emergent present, I seemed to clock-in
at the check-in counter. No sooner I swirl away, fallen stalemate, of my obliterated future at proceeding

on boarding my scheduled flight to Paris. At loss of my bearing, I struggled with my pride, reenacting
an inexistent past, by the destined whims of change, to feature there my future.
Strolling where my earlier tracks vanished, in sight by a thin flurry of people across the concourse
fetching my pebble trail in the shadow of a profound cosmic mischief. Or, destined resolution of duality.
Secretive slip-up, by a cupid sculptured in an spatial fleece the girlish eye wishful cognitive
transcendence at maturity for permeating a fetus at getting born puppeteering at the strings instinctive
lingering me on to a granted opportunity, adventuring in my earlier combative home leaving gloom.
Thoughtless, leading a way to a car in the taxi rank, where moments before I was drooped off.
Climbing inside a car, I called out, "Please will you..." and cleared my throat over an hesitant
directive. Fallen fool, of a failing attention, over a next door house numbering, I went onto saying,
"Hundred-and-six, Sixty-third road, Forest hills!" Pulling off. Transpose my destined destinations. In
stealth, I fetched the fled milieu, feeling the purge of a breakout sentence, as we hit the highway.
Staring out the window, tarrying, and pilfering in an unscheduled return to Francine's life. We turned off
the highway, onto estranged suburbs. Doodling by sight emerged familiar architectures, and sporadic
placed myself at resemblant street corners, which vanished in fuzzy streetscapes. In a perplexing home
coming, I prepared at kidding Francine upon her return from work. Instinctive, I rehearsed a speech, ' I
wasn't destined to leave you!' Thoughtful over another weekend together, the taxi dropped me off in
front of a pair of shoulder-to-shoulder houses. I peered left of the apartment I vacated next door, read in
the quiet, stepping out the car and no sooner in the clear strolling over to the pedestrian pathway. In my
approach, onto rising aloft stairs, sentient of a cold soulless front door, in stalemate, I inserted
emblematic the spare key, simulating the silent chemistry of the relationship, though skeptic in entering
the apartment.
Finding Francine's little flirtatious candlelight absent, which dances in the draft, and leans over in a
cross breeze, by my Air Elements, of winds that contours from hurting obstacles and sweeps through
undergrowth. I quizzical traced alongside the window light, the disappearance of my music cassette
container off the shelf. Sitting on the foot of the bed, in wait for Francine to return from Pesce art
design studio in Manhattan. My eyesight sweeping questionable roundabout a flair of Francine's Ruling
Element of Fire. Strange of the flagrant spick-and-span interior, resurrects mysterious ghostly shadows
around the apartment, the dissimulated zeal of a little flame sporadic propagated a fever through the
brushwood, lifting in a torch, blustery ravaging, characterizing a flip of coin, ferocious slapdashes that
targeted what I left earlier behind.
Glancing once again at my wristwatch, marks the hands of the dial on the hour of ten, I kicked my
dawdling doubts, jumped to my feet at laying my haunted mind to rest for the night. Stepping outside,
where misty lamppost lights raised dark shadows, and Francine's latent vivid voice in my stride down the
street toward the subway station. Her sporadic tales over time echo on such moments commuting alone
at peak hours in chock-a-block carriages. The train pulled into station, and in the passenger car, I found
sparse scattered people. My mind idle, sought in their eyes a diversion from a reality looming her
symbiotic skittish Horse spirit. When the doors parted in the wings, and I stepped out to leave the
platform for the tunneling exit. By a cautious even pace rising from the subway station, to find Soho in a
lateral perspective. I walked straight on, while in view of the commercial blocks, sentient to recollecting
distant directives. In stealth, I approached from the opposite sidewalk, groping through business address
for the insignia. Locating the entrance and slowing my pace, assuring a spider crawl by sight up the
stubby tower, I transpose my night howl habits, at unmasking floor lights. The building in darkness, I
returned scrutinizing in depth floor glints of incidental burning light. Metallic foil and central, abolition
blocks diffused, up and down stairways, thoughtful conclusive, 'No lights She's not at work!' Not on
rendezvous, appears spatial projected and holographic across the building facade, picturing a street front
window. Peering in depth along a lengthy bar and clear run of a hefty carved wooden counter. At the
far end the counter falls back to the wall, and figures enacting customary elegant, Francine sitting on a
bar stool. Eloquent seductive physique open for abuse, obstinate adverse to her spirit in retrieve a
profound reflexion, 'Do as I want and, not as I do,' telepathic in her savoir-faire having a lonesome
drink, across a barman.
As my eyesight jumped off the ledge, and from the second floor onto the sidewalk, to hop across the
street, reaching out in a wide spread search further up the perspective of reflective signs shadowing
luminescence at unrecognizable doorways. I frayed by multiplying accordion squeezing places into a
profound confusing night fuzz. Dropped thoughtful, 'Nevertheless,' and in my mounting anger, unrelenting
I raised afar by virtue an octopus cluttered nightly shadowy streets, at loss of ever finding Francine's

hideout. I detached from the scene by a remote eyes hovering over an evanescent lower Manhattan
street grid. Awaking, having retreated to a subway station, and rolling back my way, dawdling
about her rightful freedom, in a trundling carriage scares of passengers.
Leaving the subway behind, calm and alone, thoughtless in my stride, the illuminating enigma.
Susceptible bounce back, unknitted a destined flight for Paris camouflaged in a living routine, the
cancellation as a mishap. A transcendent-moral pre-emptive overseeing a willful wrongdoing, suscitating a
latent lingering fidelity. I arrived and on the threshold of my moral right, crossing, to the hearth of
home, the walls, floor, ceiling, and furniture living petty wishful infused by Francine's wealth of tenantry.
In her absence, estranged to the bed, nevertheless, I slipped under the duvet. My head on the pillow
gravitated judicious unveiling to mind, the remote and the moral duel. In the blues that sentient latent
capricious child fledging the notion rhyming syllabic the words auditioning, 'I am the chosen one to
being,' transcendent puppeteering into a path the espousing chemistry.
Heightening a conscious morning light, I lay my dream to sleep. Instead, lackadaisical arouse
scheduling my day, this clear, I step from the bed, and away. Dressing and head off for downtown
Manhattan in a working vacation mood. Feeling conform with a corporate prerequisite, and conditions to
gain access to building contracts, I entered the Riese Organization. In this ancient building piling folders
of yellowing and curling paper edges by sneaking staff pressing work. Scrupulous, I pressed my way to
the upper floor corridor and walked to the right extreme end of the construction department. Arriving in
the door light to the manager's office, the Indian figure had risen from behind his desk, and stormed
straight for me, with a perplexed burdened expression. He impressed an exit, swerved. From my back
pace, I watched the distancing figure to vanish afar. In the waiting by for his imminent return. When he
did, stealing a few inappropriate words, "Not for now!" A code that sets me on strolling off.
Destined to strolled in a midmorning traffic in the perspective of glittering businesses, when across
the street, a cast deep shade edged on the sidewalk. In the offbeat, shadows shy a building facade
behind a latticework of pipe scaffolding. Envious in my approach, I peered through the sheltered
passageway for pedestrian. Curious and profound penetrating. Groping the shadows of the site underconstruction, lively emerged a construction dynamic. Bar waxing young slit eyed of roundish faces, the
figures borrowing daylight, a jab in my chest. Apart my proper illegal Polish crew, unmasking scruffy
dust covered labor clothes dump rubble into a street parked container. An illuminating billboard, raised
the specter of my proper sites in the context of the Riese Organization.
Remedying a sentient treachery, rolling back my way to Forest hills. Nowhere home, thoughtful
leaping hopes, over our transposing entities, and spellbound challenging my career abroad. A while later
I welcomed Francine home. In the interim with little on offer during our evening together, she suscitated
to my surprise, without shame, hinting a reality over her night out, disconnected, an innocent mischief
over our relationship, saying, "All they [men] want is ass!"
Francine allusive self negating, mysterious giving her an authentic flair. I granted her motives, while
looms at a cosmic level a promiscuous awakening. Mind baffling, I cursed myself, 'It's her life!' reticent
over her overnight ritual, as she emancipates innocent in living routines. Opening the transcendentcognition sluice sporadic regurgitate spellbound wits of an Aries. Her thoughtful boasting an Iranian
colleague at work, '[French] He is so skillful He opened for me a bank account!'
Thoughtful entering the weekend, we headed off for Central Park. At the boathouse rented a barge,
and rowed, skating at large on the plane of water. Francine prompted, repeating the code name 'She,'
giving me an inside glimpse, at picturing her in a rhythm pecking out a blank canvas the dotting at the
initiative of her pointillistic project. Discovering together the emblematic New York skyline water tanks,
which said by itself, 'Think of what you have [me]?' By the same token, devoid of her culture, she
introduced me to the obvious in my trade. Estranged oarsman in the wind, romantic disconnected, I
oversee an evanescent and pragmatic loss in the pair of volatile oars in water, that bogged down the
barge in the middle of the lake. In seeking, I pictured walking the glazed surface, and to my dismay,
relieved to berth within the letting period, and started off strolling from the boathouse. Meeting drafty
streets. Downtown, we entered a Jewish fast-food, to queue along a display counter. Behind a production
line of kitchen staff, processed at a pace from the pita bread through the fillings. At the end, we picked
up the falafels, rolling back from the cashier into the streets, and savoring along the way, sharing a
regard for the subway home.

Sunday by mid-morning, transposing in a final destined strait Francine silenced, emotive cocooned,
hatching in disarray insecure and wishful, '[French] You can't break up leaving me behind?" her distant
giggles echo the absurd over my proposal, profound mocked stupid in the wake of my broken French. I
bathe in shame in the aftermath of my stripped pride, such as the evening that dawns on me, unable to
retrieve from my obstinacy, and say, 'I meant to say, I want to know where I stand with you?' Calling
the taxi, which she snubs. At the honk outside, as my eyes turned to my luggage, her figure warded off
behind the inner blind corners of the apartment. I heaved my bags, stepped outside. At sight the car, I
headed up, and onto the trunk, opening, inviting to drop my luggage within. Moving off around the
fender, fetch across the lawn the lie of the pointing front yard pedestrian path. Sentient of a paradoxical
desire lingering at the top of the stairway. In vain, I stepped into the taxi, calling upfront at the figure,
"JFK please!"
Watching an antinomic pivot of a deadlock entrance door on the deserted perron, the house rotates
out of sight. I turned focusing ahead, measuring fleeting behind the historic extend of the street at the
pace of my strides. Accelerating into the future, decisive bearing the punch of uncertainty, in mind
swirls, churns, recurrent pieces out of my puzzling past, and disposed to project at sight picturing the
extent of the past in the skyline. In view of the airport, arriving in a movement by the departure
terminal, the scene stalls. I stepped out from a gesturing payment to the driver, ongoing toward
successive mind extractive deja-vu scenes settling in a sentient ambient off peak atmosphere. In a
sweeping, I turned away feathery light from the check-in counter, onto anticipating a passport control,
and on the run, stroll through the tax free mall. Proceeding through wide and perspective evanescent
corridors by the waiting area, bloom in the gleam of light, the call of an emersed Air France ground
hostess. She checked my boarding pass, and diverted me off right tunneling down. In my approach,
ephemeral casino glittery 747 sweeping stairs, and taking in the spiraling lead upper deck. At the top, by
elegance in an air hostess outfit, she lay my soul to rest nurturing by her broad smile ushering me to a
window seat, such as an eloquent elongated avian wing taxiing the design engineers into confidence for
the takeoff. In a propulsive physical cocoon, allegoric of an in flight contrail lingering snap from the jet
engine, the migratory spirit is bond to cause a shock wave, appertaining upon landing a jet-lag effect
catching up the body.

Vision is a passenger-scientific tool of the mind, which has kept me intrigued since infancy, over
half a century in due course, with date stamps and records, compelled by psychoanalytic
odysseys reserved for exploration by the deepest halls of my mind.
Here are some links for further in-depth reading, the core of a detailed work: The Code:
Horizon Of Infinity
Video in conjunction with this work: Video -- The Code: Horizon of Infinity
Books available from the publisher: SBPRA books

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