So much goes unremarked. We (you cannot guess our names, nor does it matter except that we keep calling ourselves the same thing) have tried to be truthful where it cannot possibly matter, and fallen silent. Forgive our silences, but there are things that must be spoken only to the dogs.

Meaning eludes us: there are so many unnamed stretches of highway where we have seen approaching thunderclouds and been happy. We have been to the same cities more than once, felt ourselves to be different creatures. Music and women have named us (O Danny Boy the Pipes the Pipes Are Calling, e.g.), and we have come to understand what they named, enough to be them.

Well, and some are better singers than others.