I sat in the back row of a Greyhound bus two months ago, trying to determine whether everything happens for a reason, or if up until the final moment there is choice, or if only in reflection we can say everything happens perfectly, in the only way it could, or if it's all really just about the string theory. I thought then this problem would be decipherable over the course of the next 28 days. How wrong a girl can be.

I'm reminded of this brain athleticism each morning while commuting through the delicious early-fall air on another bus, which is similar to a Greyhound but with 100 percent less socializing and story fodder.

Besides fate, I've been working on articulating, in the words of James Joyce, "imaginable itinerary through the particular universal." In English, that's thoughts and sweepy feelings (gasp). Tried figuring a way to talk about my own theories regarding found objects (belts strewn on sidewalks, plastic jewels in the street, discarded letters, food scraps); the millions of memories each nook of Manhattan holds (sites of lovelifedeathandothershenanigans); attempted to tell a friend he has traits not possessed by another human; or to her, that as a duo we know invincibility; or that I still miss those friends in such a specific way; or that the laughter I summon from memories is what I most fear losing.

But all I've said so far comes out sounding like maraschino cherry paste. On second thought, maybe that ain't half bad.

But more than that, it seems this conversation also turns to the damned string theory: someone leaves something behind and someone else picks it up; we try relaying our dreams and consequently spread or reduce confusion; we overlap, spread the love. Like a big heapin' knot of string.

Does everything come back to that? Here's to hoping so.