Once upon a time (in the mid 1980s, actually) I lived in Boston and had a job downtown at Beacon Press. I used to take long walks in the Public Garden, where I encountered a lot of homeless people. (This was before I had enough money in my pocket to feel guilty in their presence.) 

One day a man looked at my face––numbed, I'm sure, by depression and despair and the ill-fitting suit of memory––and uttered the words that give this page its title. He was right then, though I couldn't see it, and he's right now. All it took for me to realize it was two more decades of me hurling myself at a wall until I became as pliable as putty. 

Now, in his spirit of good cheer in the face of uncertainty, I'd like to establish a sort of spur on the labyrinth. A place where it's likely to grow and I'm able (or so I hope) to leave behind the troublesome legacy of my father and create a legacy for my sons that is a bit less troublesome. If you sense daddlylabyrinth growing while you're away from it––and I hope, dear reader, that you and it do form this strong of a psychic connection––this is the first place you should check back to see if your impression is correct. 

Hey homeless guy in Boston––wherever you are, alive or dead. Thank you and God bless you.