So romanceless does the expanse of this day seem.

And the world remains indifferent.

I imagine, much later, making camp after sunset somewhere in lost mountains and playfully teasing a campfire past flame to orange glowingness which I will then bash with my impromptu walking stick, sending hot embers like fireflies as messengers starward.  *I’m alive!*   *I’m alive!” , they would scream heavenwards. *Come, friend, sit by my fire and share with me a heart-to-heart and we’ll watch the stars spin round, spin round.*

Or I imagine even sharing a cup of coffee in a coffeeshop this morn, chatting this, chatting that, watching many somebodies come and go, with —who? You!  Which you?  Any you, with an open heart, keen mind, and sense of voyage will do!

I could sit and imagine the day away, leaving loneliness itself dreamily bereft.  Too busy to do anything while seemingly doing nothing, I could sit and imagine so hard you would laugh!

But Trickster Time fills my day with a legion of laborious tasks.   I could detail you of the work I have in the kitchen, the fix-the-computer this, the enhance-the-communications that, the manage-and-record of all of it.

But if I could descriptively portray it all, story-it all, with you by my side, it would probably evolve into some great otherwise—a morphing adventure probing unforeseen mystery, wringing soft pleasurable doom out of stolid routine.

How my heart’s hopes do survive on so many *ifs*.  How my imagination does befriend me during this expanse sans romance.