There are times, I think I'm on my way. I'm picking up bread c u m s r b left on my trail. Then, I trip, slip ... and slide ... somewhere d o w n a rabbit hole-- look out Alice, I can't seem to STOP myself. My fingers clutch at straws, and grasp the clinging vine-- and I jerk myself back to now. I stand up straight, s~h~a~k~e myself off, and amid clouds of dust, one step, two... I ramble on again.