I've grown weary of this road and the cyclical path I follow,
yet I know that to make this road my bed would be to make it my grave.
Too long I've slumped forward, like a satellite in low orbit; forever falling down but never quite reaching The Place Where Down Stops.
All I need is one flare, one burst of flame
away from the stale air of an old house and musty earth
and to propel what passes for a spaceship into fresh, verdant land.

I've outlined the necessities, which you'll find on page four of the agenda.
Our itinerary is scrawled somewhere between the receipt for my breakfast and my dry cleaning,
and don't worry if a leaf or two falls out.