Light travel was all Dave knew but his package was not. Glancing past the familiar landmarks, he reconciled that this rendezvous would answer the question and it wasn't the one about "who put the bomp". Serially diverted by globes and pointers since as far back as he could remember, Dave was driven by the soul connection felt from the first words from Connie's mouth: "Stick it in". No, actually it was a reference to "not enough romance anymore" and he was on it like a peter in a butt crack. This time there would be time enough to strike a gong in the Criterion-like face lick that he would never do since that reeked of hedonism and he was more of a swirly-kiss guy and she was, too. Now if you fast forward to the journal entry dated June 1, 2010, it was about a dream that numerologically granted exemptions from duress if the last three digits added up to less than ten. That told Dave he was deja-vuing again as the station ahead approached and this time we'll never part again, this time we'll flavor the tryst with rosemary and cancel all plans for another archaeological dig then instead, vodiodo. No more Cliff Clavin-like wonder moments (like, If the Brady Bunch crashes in the Andes who would they eat first? Woody: Well probably the maid, 'cause she's not kin Cliff: Yeah, but if they were smart they would ask her the best way to prepare herself. ). This time it's for keeps.