My hope is that this is the way all of us our. I would hate to be the odd man out on this one.
Our lives are internal, necessarily and habitually internal. Walking down Main Street the clouds are low in the trees after rain in the night and I witness them swirl through Whiteman’s Pass. Once, a number of years ago, I saw a heavy, white cloud pinned low in the pass as it flowed over and down the waterfall, pouring through the Grassi Lakes canyon and disappearing toward the reservoir. I’m sure I was the only one that saw this happen, and it hasn’t happened since.
Things that happen, happen to us.