Wish key.

People go about it in different ways, it appears. Some of them drink their whiskey. Some people, they try to cut their hair, their nails, eyebrows, their eyelashes. They lay under the eyes of birds and bugs in the hot sun to burn out old cells. They cut their dog's nails, then their own toenails, and accidentally cut their finger on some thin paper. But when they get up again to look in the mirror, it is still there. It will still be there.

Miles to go.

I, in a fog, hear myself thinking about two things in the car this night: chocolate milk, and riding a steed at seven oncomers, pell-mell, pinching sweaty reins between my teeth. The whole of wide Ontario feels small, a midnight fog here making its own low ceiling and narrow walls. Two constant red lights above the road are glinting twins ahead of me, saying that they will never be reached. Now, while I look to the part of the world where vision and fog accost, I think to myself, What a jumble all of this is, isn't it? A ruckus, a fray. All of it, everything, all of us, it's just--and I want nothing but to sleep.

Timshel.

He lifted the breadbox and took out a tiny volume bound in leather, and the gold tooling was almost completely worn away—The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in English translation.

Lee wiped his steel-rimmed spectacles on a dish towel. He opened the book and leafed through. And he smiled to himself, consciously searching for reassurance. He read slowly, moving his lips over the words.

“Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is remembered.

“Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the universe loves nothing so much as to change things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.” Lee glanced down the page. “Thou wilt die soon and thou are not yet simple nor free from perturbations, nor without suspicion of being hurt by external things, nor kindly disposed towards all; nor dost thou yet place wisdom only in acting justly.”

Lee looked up from the page, and he answered the book as he would answer one of his ancient relatives. “That is true,” he said. “It’s very hard. I’m sorry. But don’t forget that you also say, ‘Always run the short way and the short way is the natural’—don’t forget that.” He let the pages slip past his fingers to the fly leaf where was written with a broad carpenter’s pencil, “Sam’l Hamilton.”

Suddenly Lee felt good. He wondered whether Sam’l Hamilton had ever missed his book or known who stole it. It had seemed to Lee the only clean pure way was to steal it. And he still felt good about it. His fingers caressed the smooth leather of the binding as he took it back and slipped it under the breadbox. He said to himself, “But of course he knew who took it. Who else would have stolen Marcus Aurelius?” He went into the sitting room and pulled a chair near to the sleeping Adam.