Did I tell you that the other day, before the trip to MO, I dreamed of riding in a big American car with Rich Daume at the wheel? I asked him in profile if he had decided what he wanted to do. Because we are running out of time, I said. And it was true. Then he drove through a dingy yellow downtown, down a wide, deserted boat ramp. There was the sea, the great lake, some untold body of water, a few feet away, waiting to suck us all in. The water seemed higher than its own surface level. There was a pause. Then he wheeled the old car around, and we drove on up the street to some other night-lit destination.