Moving through space but not time - that’s what it felt like as the daylight danced offstage right, fading out in a thousand momentary glints: a green leaf shrouded in gold - a reflective flash from between two cars of the passing train - split-seconds as perennial as summer has always been. Forever gone in a flash. The road like a woman dancing, all twists and turns drawing us in, carrying us forward. He drove like he knew her secrets, never hesitating, and I did not hesitate to trace the knuckles of his fingers, navigating the structure of the hand clasped tightly in my own. On a Saturday in July, where three states give way to the jurisdiction of nature’s highway (the occasionally mighty but often lackadaisical Shenandoah), those moments became a film playing in my mind for years afterward: the green and golden light, the wandering road, the soot-stained train, the warbling of Dave Matthews’s voice, Tom’s hand in mine. That drive hangs suspended, untouched by past or future, one of those rare and magical escapes from the weight of passing hours. A twilight dream, humming with quiet energy, coalescing into a velvet night we followed backstage, out of the eternal sunset. Even infinity ends, I suppose, but while it lasted - it was enough.