Thank you, kind Lyrical Lady.

Throughout this ancient safe retreat, the power of music and the gentle persuasion of free booze has combined to create a kind of glazed benevolence, a shaken, bruised heart which still remembers the deep rhthms to which it always marches -- the drummer Music, the bright fife of Humanity, and the constant companions of good thinking and right acting. For better or for worse the people in the tavern are gravitating, in their sorrows and pains, back to their truest centers once more, knowing that there is always the future in which to make things better.

Warm winds from the winding river blow around the door, the sounds of scores of large dumptrucks hauling rubble from the ruined Towers, can be heard, but so can the sound of the softest tear falling on a table in the old tavern. So, too, can the sound of the music -- just now, the old Silvertone is plucking out, "Folllow ---- Follow --- Folow the Drinking Gourd", an old, old song sung those who continuously seek freedom.

The stars wheel into position slowly in the sky above Manhattan, and the music continues its endless rolling lift across the centuries.