When I had the Sportster I’d drive it, aimlessly, foot hard on the accelerator, top down, dusk just over the late summer horizon, across the desolate cypress swamplands to nowhere in particular , listening to Houses of the Holy.  She wasn’t there sitting beside me.  Moments of peak happiness, still – intense and pure because I found myself alone – what-should-have–been-but-just-wasn’t, now or ever perhaps- a momentous realisation, inchoate, as-yet unacknowledged failure, not yet fully out in the lived world.  Driving away jubilant, devastated.