Much of life is waiting; much of waiting is a withering away of life. All of waiting is an anticipation - often hurried, occasionally mindful - to come up on the end of waiting. I often feel that waiting is mutual - life waits for us while we wait for life. In the mad rush of living, arrival has become but a fantastical thought. What does it feel like to not be waiting for something, for someone, for anything at all... Can we know now or do we have to wait to find out...?