Stories

And where does a story end, and another one begin? And what of those moments, lounging on a street corner watching the traffic go by? Aren't they part of a story, too? The threads of the tapestry weave a single pattern, yet we hunger for a discreet beginning and end, not God's Coltrane-like music of being everyone everywhere at once and for all time, a story following a thread, 'a piece of string' like de Maupassant's, a beginning, middle and end, a glimpse, something for those of us walking a path on earth and preparing to take a next step, maybe lifting our heads to some vista far beyond