I sat in a bar in a small, college town. Men too old to know better exchanged glances with young women out to prove their worth. Their forearms rested against wood tables that drifted across the floor on stories past their expiration date. There were promises to be the last man standing until the bar man closed us down. Sitting across the room with my back against the crowd, I listened to the ruckus sitting on his mouth. I could tell there's more missing from this man than the vowels in his words. His hands moved faster each time his stories failed to land. Soon he'd be searching for a second coming with someone who hadn't felt his rattle and his spray.

Between the flash of headlights through the front window, you whispered that you've been searching for the last magician. Someone who could make the street signs tell your future and make the shame disappear into the ground. Our knees bounced against one another as I told you of my old gypsy ways. Called you bar stool royalty and told you I'm that magician in disguise. You mentioned that I looked more like a court jester than a man with intention and a fast car. I searched for something to comment on, but the only thing I managed to notice was how the drinks kept piling up at the end of the bar.

There was a smile and glimmer of something in your eye. You knew what was happening and you lost yourself as your skin stuck to summer wood. Grab my hand, you thought; you're the last magician in this stupid town. You make everything disappear and the streets come alive. Strangers become truth tellers. The woman that sits on the corner and prays for souls like ours, tells us not to bet on another morning as we wander the street. There's a man in the sky looking down and judging the wanderer and the magician.

You told me there's too much truth in my touch and you want it to disappear, to which I replied that there's a difference between the truth and the news. There's the prayers of a mother and those of a daughter and they aren't the same. She prays for peace and you pray for rage. There's a need to believe.

I'd like to believe that I've told you all you need to know about me. But I suspect that isn't true. Are you willing to suspend belief and embrace the illusion, as you explore more deeply the places that bring out your submissive. Confidence in knowing that you're on a journey and what you'd like to get out of it before we say good bye would be very appreciated. A willingness to look back on the experience and take the magic with you in the future would be an ideal outcome.