Finding HoursIn twenty seven hours, I could
hear you speak. The speed of sound
is lost on this distance. You, my darling,
are not. I will find you.
From where you are, it would take
something like twenty eight hours to
feel at home. The air, I imagine,
would have a different scent where
you'd rather be.
You could go, half the way, and wait
for me, somewhere in Kansas. We could
meet in Bourbon; that's a real place, you know,
and it sounds like somewhere we could feel
without any influence.
I know nothing of there, but from here,
I'm willing to bet that you, my dear,
would be the most intoxicating thing
our hours might find.