The following year I went to New York to get my step-children, Robert, almost nine, and Mikaela, seven, who were visiting their grandmother, and we travel across country to return to their mother in California. I call John Perry Barlow and tell him we will be passing through Wyoming and ask if we can we come visit him. He says yes. We arrive and I notice there are no gas stations or stores on the road and see he has his own gas pump on The Ranch. As soon as we arrive, Mikaela asks him if he´s the one who wrote "I Need A Miracle". "Yes, I am" he says. The kids go with his kids to play. Barlow shares with me some stories about some of their songs including "I Need A Miracle", "Estimated Prophet" "The Music Never Stopped", "Black Throated Wind", and how and where they wrote the songs to "Heaven Help The Fool". He talks about poets and songwriting, Bob Weir, Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh and Bob Dylan. He had some suprising things to say too,  and those conversations and revelations will be in the book. We´re sitting on his porch and he invites me into his house to see his pyramid. The Pyramid Room has an energy I never felt before, an amazing overwhelming feeling.

When I ask him the question I asked Bob about Heaven, he answers

"If you want to go for a ride, I'll show you as close as we can get."

We talk about “Terrapin, the space between the dark of night and the dawn of day”.

We’re in thick cloudy fog now. John asks me if I have read any of William Blake’s poetry. I said yes, I know some of his poems. John Perry talks about the visionary and pastoral poet. He stops the car. We’re here in the fog, and when we get out of the car we’re able to stick our heads above the clouds. It reminds me of the time it was raining on one side of the street and dry on the other. He takes us to the river bluff, overlooking the Green River. It is different, peaceful, like the most beautiful place I’ve seen on earth it seems to feel at this moment. We're in the heavenly space where the music never stops in our lives, like the wind on the river, it whistles through the pines, an eternal sound, an immortal wind, forever writing in our hearts the memories that take hold, the run of light in the darkness of space, beyond where the great ones gather.

John asks if I want to come with him to the only store, the local liquor barn, and he pulls in to the takeout window there. "Black Jack!" he says with a smile.