Distance is somewhat subjective. In life I went at least a small distance and I came back. I wrung my hands and I shook hands with others. I operated thoughtfully and thoughtlessly. My plans were fair creatures, and unfair. I was a clown and in some ways a club...but somewhere along the way I was surprised by intelligence and compassion, not so much my own as that recognized in others, and those are my friends here and across the world
Whether in song or spoken verse, I have always liked poetry. Sometimes I like colorful, fully-dressed, long-winded extravaganza, but most times, I like sparse, fire escape prose, the words that are naked, frightened, running for their life.
What the Other Guy is Going Through:
The cricket had me to itself. It seems that was the way it wanted it, carrying on so in the middle of the night with noone else around, talking with its legs (as I suspect some of us do in our own way), and in the foreign language of its own happiness or anxiety. I pretended to be interested, as we often do, but had a broom and my own agenda. It went on chirping in a harm-or-harmless way. I went on poking like someone reaching out to stab-or-pat a hand. And so it went, and so it ended (as it so often does even within members in same series) with notice given, patience spent, and not much gain in understanding.