'The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you', Ellen recited to herself as she stepped off the asphalt and into the park. Maybe, it was as simple as this. Just making sure to wake up and get out from under the doona; just pulling on a pair of old Reeboks; just getting to the park. The alternative players on her inner stage were no good anymore. On the one hand, the blind auto pilot flying her through thick clouds and terrifying turbulence. Years had gone by not knowing where she was going and, worse still, not even seeing what went past as she flew to there. Or, on the other hand, the Roman gladiator rushing at all the lions - self-help books, pills, psychologists, electro-shock therapy, Turning Points and Landmarks and Lighthouses... Storming heaven, a kind priest once said, doesn't get you entry. So, maybe, Ellen thought the path was somewhere in the middle - somewhere between her mind's distortions and her mind's determinations. The early morning moderation. The quiet path through the park as the sun rose over the river and through the gums.