| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
I heard somewhere that Houdini, before he died, told his wife that if there was indeed an afterlife, he would visit her on the first anniversary of his death. * * She waited for him that night. She waited for him the following year. And the year after that. He never came. * * I want to believe that if I just tried hard enough, harder than Mr. Houdini, that I could find you again. That if I left a trail of breadcrumbs or lay some magic string, that we'd meet up again. Not Here nor There, but somewhere in between. But if Houdini couldn't manage it, then maybe all there is is dust and nothing. Or maybe Houdini has a strange sense of humor and doesn't like his wife all that much. |
better places . . . . over under and through |