My mother is the war,' declares Roger Mexico, leaning over to open the door. - Thomas Pynchon

Lovely morning, World War Two.

Have you ever fall'n into one of those Cometary Dazes, with the way the Object grows brighter and brighter each night? These Apparitions in the Sky, we never observe them but in Motion, — gone in seconds, and if they return, we do not see them. Once safely a part of the Night Sky, they may hang there at their Pleasure, performing whatever their Work corresponds to shifting jibs and stay-sails, keeping perfectly upon Station, mimicking any faint, unnam'd Star you please. Do they watch us? Are they visits from the past, from an Age of Faith, when Miracles still literally happen'd?

You can only cruse the boulevards of regret so far, and then you've got to get back up onto the freeway again.