Quite a while, I thought.
There were other things to do first. A wife to heal, a kid to send to school, a house to finish, taxes to pay, trips to make, furniture to buy.
Maybe a war to fight at some frustrated desk.
But then
the future didn't belong to me, anyway.
It doesn't belong to you.
It belongs to our children and their children; to God—whom I call instinct—whom you may never call or call upon—or whom you may prayerfully confuse with your own good opinion of yourself.
Look and see.
I went down to the Knight's Bar alone.
I was hungry.