Par David Duchovny Home is where the heart is and my heart is out travelling. Up into the wild blue yonder, wingless, prayerful that this miracle of flight will not end, just yet. Also at home, with you, on the ground wherever you might be at the moment, grounded like a highschooler, like a wire, a bird and a wire, feet on the ground and my heart in my throat now, now in my feet, lawfully descending with gravity to the lower, lowest most sought after most beautifully bound, home. Aspirations involve reparations. We reach for the stars wondering what we are. But my Reason has been found by finding you and looking down. And it is there, not in the stars of fantasized worlds, fifth dimensions, sixth senses, holy parralel potentates of potentialities-that my feet wil trace their slow as history itself dance: a walking calligraphy so subtle that it will take 40 years and more and a view from above with an impersonal remove and lofty attachment I hope to barely fail at that mythical two-backed beast; itinerant stasis; like the one I enjoy up here in the well attended air, to read the cursive strokes of my aggregate footsteps, like some fairy tale dissolve, "Once upon a time" or twice written on our little page of earth, ground, wherever our home may be will be wherever we happen to be.