I am floating in waters where our stories are submerged and floating downstream.  They pass me and mine pass others, and I wonder what are we really saying.  The stories seem to be crashing against each other like waves on an unsettled day.  There is a thread through all of them.  There is a question through all of them.  There is a choice in all of them, but that choice is often lost in the rolling of the waves one against another.