I write to you buried beneath a mountainous avalanche of leather satchels, hatboxes, and brass-bound trunks… my corset simply too tight to catch my breath beneath the worldly possessions of people who apparently cannot choose one pleasant horizon and simply remain there.

One would think I had suddenly gained employment as a travel agent. List ten destinations, they say, as though we were compiling a frantic shopping list rather than contemplating a meaningful journey.

Ten.

Why must one chase ten different horizons when a single, quiet shore would suffice?

I looked at that number. Then I looked at the map.

There are but seven continents. Seven!

And I thought, Lord, You only gave us seven continents to work with.

What exactly is expected of me here?

Now I suddenly see myself with brochures.

Reserve a weekend cruise… Charter a hot-air balloon…

And my mind quickly shifts back and asks, why ten, anyway?

Why not three?

Three feels civilized.