This is it, the end of the line, as far west as you can go on this continent, at the western terminus of the #2 Clement Street bus line of the San Francisco Muni Railway. Do they still call it that?
He returned to Land’s End, finally, from a long and uneventful exile, drawn back to this mournful, miserable place from which he started. He didn’t know then that his graduation from Yale, so many years ago now, was to be his apotheosis. But now, standing on the edge of the precipice, looking down at the never-ending sea, he knew all, the little, that there was to know.
It is interesting how often we fail to recognize the instances in our lives when the eventual outcome has shifted, sometimes imperceptibly, more often catastrophically, like a tectonic plate; and we don’t even realize it. Not for decades. If at all.
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