Strange how I feel your heat in my sleep, all our comings and goings in dreams of fair-haired ballrooms, crossed wire dancing on teddy bear-skinned pins, headed up hills charging to glory. There is glory in the unrealized. There is glory in the meeting place that passes us by in every incarnation of historical time. There is glory in a momentary meeting of frustrated purpose. There is glory in your face, my voice, a smile frozen roughly, riding forever in gilded imaginings. The pictures move, love, and so do we.