3:26

Sometimes we lose. Life--the world, and everything--presses in. Struggling like an underwater swimmer, we kick towards the surface, only to have it remain stationary, teasing just beyond our grasp. We become immune to these forces, eventually starved for air and numb. Many get stuck here in this halfway place--that tenuous balance that teeters on the edge of complete uproot. It becomes second nature and soon evolves into the real.

Jerry often walks home--thirty minutes of reflection to study fellow tight rope walkers. Some seem to say "I...can't --- breathe...."--their eyes clouded as they keep to their side of the walk. So many bodies moving in the unconscious orbits of their lives. Alienation widens the sidewalk--we move on.

Sometimes we lose. But sometimes, one or two break the surface. The car passes and I see the driver. Windows up, radio up, she sings--smiling. She probably doesn't sound good--the notes stretching the limits of her accountant abilities. But for the 3:26 of the music, she breathes in the simple freedom nostalgic of childhood--where we just go for it. We go for the cookie, we dance because we can't help it, we pick the booger, we don't laugh--we giggle, we remember to slow down and love someone.

We move on. The song finishes and we sink back to that place where we laugh at those who sing, where those who dance look funny, and we are safe in our isolation. We settle in to wait for the next moment where our guard weakens, where we can shore the 3:26 against our ruin.