I was 23. I was in love. And I was on top of the world.
Figuratively and, it seemed, literally as well. I would drive to the top of the highest hill in my neighborhood and look down at the sleepy town below, pulling over to the curb and putting the car into park. Looking at rows of lights in the distance of neighborhood that would be so close if I could put my car into “fly” and hop from hillside to hillside. The glow of a thousand little lives casting a dim glow onto hills beyond, which concealed other little towns with more and more lives.
A million little lives, little stories, little dramas…little dreams.
And I sang:
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