So this is likely going to become part of a larger story, or be converted into a poem.
Sitting on the head of the boat, shrouded in fog that rose interminable from the brown, meandering, serpent Monongahela, I was thousands of miles from what mattered to me with only my memories for company. The last eleven months have been a blur punctuated by notable highlights and the ghosts of the past, their corporal form refusing to fade permanently into the background of a consciousness marred, yet improved by the vagaries of the world and its calous disregard for the men and women that people it.
It is August 2013 and I have three weeks left on the river.
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