John looked at the sign.
Places he had never been. He considered the relative distances. Thousands of miles. San Francisco. Wyatt had been in San Francisco. A low tone from aether radio told him Wyatt was now buried within its borders. A Jewish cemetery in Colma. Well, he was on his way there. Soon, he smiled. Soon. Next closest was Chicago. Eddie Foy had been from Chicago. He had told John about running through the Great Fire, lost and on foot, searching for the river, with his crying baby nephew in his arms. The places further grew more distant conceptually. New York. He had never been there, had no close friend born there. But it was at least not quite a Yankee city. It had nearly seceded in the War. Then the old world. London with its churches and museums, its parliaments. The philosophers writing away in its vast libraries. Pure history. The great English City of the Old World. And then Paris. His mother had taught him French, and he had learned a little more at The Valdosta Institute. He always thought of it fondly, with its whole name, more than 'school' to him. It made him think of the revolutionaries. Danton and Desmoulins he always remembered more than Robbespierre. It was a moral of folly. And its Great and High churches, and collections of the Great Artists. The sign was remarkable. It somehow managed to list cities in the order of distance from himself - personal to impersonal, the last two receding into archetypes to him.
I was informed on the morning of Dec. 25 that I had not posted (to the 'talking muses' community) in some time and would so be removed from the community were I not to post by the fifth of January. Here is that post.Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Word Count: 298
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Nulli Virtute Secundus