I don't know if this counts as a confession, really, it’s just… sometimes I see young fathers pushing their strollers, you know, through the quiet streets, and I think maybe they're like me. I imagine him, this young man, his mind miles away, across an ocean perhaps, replaying a path not taken – a different continent, a different life, following some first, fierce love. It's a kind of maladaptive daydreaming, I suppose, an artist's temperament perhaps, always seeing the phantom limb of a life that was never quite… practical. A wistful sorrow, not for *his* loss, but for the echo of my own.