Today I travelled to the other end of town. For the return, I opted for a different bus, one that would take me through a land of desolation. This was no place of soaring skyscrapers, fantastic edifices that elevate themselves with seeming ease into the sunctuary of volatile azure. No, this land of desolation is one of stubby buildings bereft of grandeur, proud in reflectint the dire simplicity of earth, occasional shrubbery that long ago was humbled by the magnificence of the sunsets, and of dirt that perfunctorily sends forth a burst of dust. They call this place a high desert, I call it 1,600 and some miles away from home. And its height elevates this rampart of humanity existing on the edges of civilization into the vicinity of heaven; still, 7 thousand feet cannot abridge the extensive separation between the divine and earthly firmaments.