I don't think I'll ever know but then again who knows
In a glimpse of your own life, a cross-sectional study of your existence, you find yourself in a hurry--the blur of shrapnel from a shotting star which, upon closer inspection, turns out to be an airplane. You're always working--for little pay, for small gain--in preparation.....waiting....waiting....for the big even penciled in eight different languages on twelve different calendars for every year of your life. But like the flaming horizon, as you step nearer and nearer, the pencil fades. Oh hell. It erases entirely. And you're left to wonder, to wander on......