On the other end of the telescope was I, seeing it clear as dew on a vine, every day and even more so at night, my potential and the morning star above the Great City. New York, Paris or London and the pounding storm-like sound of it, its fierce speed and the alluring magnetism of its movement. This was it, the Beehive and I, a boy perched on a flake of dust in the universe, was out to find it all. I found myself on a campaign like a character out of history, deep in the thick leather snow, cold in the side-way falling rain then swept into the sky by destiny. Like the bewildered Alice, taken through the labyrinth of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland, in no form could I be prepared for what was to come. It would be a long and treacherous road ahead, exceptionally chiseled like the jawlines of Roman emperors, ready to be rediscovered and conquered again. History, the lighter of dynamite ambition, would come and offer me an abundance of examples and encouragement through the curves of her literature, use me and leave me awake throughout the full moon night, enchanted and deeply in-love with her. What about now? What am I really but an uncaged bird, flung into the tornado, destined to adapt, destined to take wing. What am I but an ember; a glowing speck in a dying fire shot across the firmament, familiar like you, marking the end of an era and the beginning of another.