I stare at a picture of the great metalled Ferris wheel from the 1893 Chicago World's Fair and lose myself in the number of people who went for a spin so long ago. Fifty years later, Picasso, stares into the cave of Lascaux and, upon seeing the dancing animals painted on the walls, declares, They've invented everything. And what about all the children that died before the age of five or the mothers that died in childbirth before the miracles of modern medicine? Is there nothing so distinctly sweet, so sweet, as real bananas picked from the Peruvian rainforest an hour before breakfast? There I stand in a picture from seven years ago with my arms around a daughter who no longer exists. That she lives in my memory, yes. And in some form of a heavenly afterlife, perhaps. Sometimes I pause, shake my hands and arms in the air, convulsively, and grin from ear to ear. I am mindful of the number of times I have returned from wherever I have gone. Many have not.