"So began 30 years of one of the biggest adventures of my life, canvassing the squirrely terrain inside my own head for signs of life," Springsteen writes at the midpoint of his autobiography, having set a scene that could have come from one of his darker ballads.
The flat terrain suited my mood and empty roads smoothed my way.
Being a phenomenally useless golfer, I welcomed the chance to practise my swing in isolation – and to blame the terrain for my frequent misfires.
It was as if this father of mine had walked the terrain of my dreams, had found there the thread of my story, a story he was now, at the brink of death, weaving from what had gone unsaid all our years together.
There are few regions on the terrain of my body that haven't given me, over the course of my life, occasion to complain.
But with eyes wide open, comparing not only the dining rooms but also the outdoor surroundings, I would have to say I enjoy the French Laundry more — a matter of terrain and my mood when I am in this bosky lotus land, far from the tempo of my hometown.
I can't resist exploring this craggy terrain with my hands.
I picked up and abandoned projects with great regularity back then, careful to always avoid the frightening terrain where my true ambitions lay.
Oh, there are a few gassy bits here and there, a jot too much couch-inspired hooey about the "terrain inside my own head".
"If you cannot see the terrain," as my father is fond of saying, paraphrasing an old Smith goggles advertisement, "you will soon become one with it".
