There was a time, not so very long ago, when I was certain that the path we walked was not the path of my choosing. Fraught with danger and warning signs that were ignored, we had marched in headfirst with nothing but nerves of steel, a pocketful of pharmaceuticals, and $20 worth of peyote, spiralling totally out of control. As graduate students we spent an inordinate amount of time pondering right versus wrong, light versus dark, and lager versus ale through the early morning hours, nestled in college bars and private rooms in Asian massage parlors, as if it was all just a masturbatory fantasy, only to find that the crisis had now reached critical levels.
"She's gone, daddy! She's gone!" My daughter shouted hysterically, as she ran into the backyard.