Where the Sidewalk (and Everything Else) Ends...

Where the Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein

Over the last couple of months, I've written here about the use of Captcha, and the opening day of the baseball season, and my heart pains, and the end of school, and my topsy turvy garden planters.  I've also written a series of four posts based on a comment left by the wife of my ex-husband.  Clearly, there is not very much to say here that is of any import, or that has any relationship to BDSM.  The truth is we are OK.  We live and really things are pretty fine.  We sometimes spank, and that is OK too.  There just isn't anything at all like the heat and fire that once powered this place.  We are old and tired and life is sort of quiet.

So.  Time to call it for what it so obviously is.  The End.  Don't worry about us.  We're just us, and this is where the sidewalk ends.

sue/swan