Rome circa. 2005
As the young man walked home from a night of Italian delicacy, absinth shots, and a crisp rolled joint smoked afront the Coliseum, he simultaneously realized where he had been and where he was going. It was ending and while his puritan blood had been finally mixed with psedo-maxist ideals, he still yearned for the Confederate flag wearing rednecks of Free Union. He always knew it, even when he had that dream in Italian. He accepted it months ago with the realization that the year was no longer a year, and his foreign potential had transitioned to the distant past. However, it wasn't until he passed St. Peter's and turned right onto Via Ottaviano that he really rationalized how short 11 days would be. Where did it go? Where is Virgina? Where is Maine? Define home. Regardless of the confusion, he pressed on, managing to smile as he passes a man speaking to a crucified angel.