Note: The above image, A Hint Of Lace Image, is copyrighted 2001 by my young friend, Iman and used with his permission. He created the image to satisfy a request I made back in December 2001.

Sometimes a glance out a distant window takes me back in time. Back to a simpler life. It was simpler because I did not have the wisdom and experience of my later years. I find as I get wiser, more knowledgeable, more experienced, I also become increasingly more introspective. Questions arise and emotions churn within.

The light beaming through the window early today sparked an immediate mood change. It would be a philosophical day for the remaining waking hours. This time of year always brings forth new psychic sensations for me. This year they are more keen and pronounced. A message awaits me, a life-changing message I sense.

I often wonder why I feel the unseen events in my near-term future. For the past 40 years I responded to those callings in varied ways; I knew I could not resist, destiny needed to be satisfied.

I named this monologue after the 1966 song by Simon and Garfunkel, The Dangling Conversation because I feel I'm supposed to be part of a conversation and I'm early in attendance. I do not know who, where, or what it is about; but it will take place sometime soon.

Yes, I know this sounds mysterious to some of you. It's not a whole lot clearer to me yet either. I trust in these insights that God sends me occasionally. If not for the excellent track record on those psychic sensations over the last four decades, it would be disconcerting.

Below are the lyrics for the song that feels most fitting to this message.

It's a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In The Dangling Conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.

And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
And The Dangling Conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in The Dangling Conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives.