Sailing in seizures of laughter, crawling out from under the heel of love, tearing down a dirt road away from Salvador, the bus shakes and I can't sleep. I'm exhausted, just want to drift away, but as my head bounces against the window all I can think is Paul Simon. Paul Simon, Stevie Wonder, Al Green, they fill my aches with words and sighs with song. Here, on the bus, the lyrics seem out of place. But so am I, and why censor? Paul was right: some stories are magical, meant to be sung. This is what filled my head then and now; this is the story of how I begin to remember...