From isn't always. To is, and it comes with a blue bucket sporting red letters. It comes in a blue bucket hung upon a wing. OD is an ending, the ending of that red, and of that reading, but I don't know what it ends. It's not
ODD. That's a beginning. Even odder, it's not where I'll keep this secret. I'll leave it, not in a bucket, but where I always do, where I left it before, in the internal ear you'll listen to it with while you read it. It's not really a secret. Have I told you? Have I ever
told you, each time the plane's wheels lift up, it feels only slightly, only slightly less miraculous than the beating of your heart. Then the beating of your heart lifts me. It takes me from and to.