When this is the view from my window, it is so easy for me to imagine that I am someplace else. Then again, it is not someplace else. It is here. It may be that I am some place else. I only need to return here--to get back to where I am, that is, to where I always was, since I had never really left to go some place else. I only thought I was someplace else.

Maybe what I long for is a different time, a different decade, or even a different century. It is so easy to romanticize the past. I simply select those bits and pieces, which I find attractive and blow them out of proportion and take them out of context.

The present is the present; presence is the gift.