It's Tuesday morning.
We got there, in the end. The final day of the primary season; the final two contests.
Later today - quite a bit later, in fact - the results from South Dakota and Montana will come in. Two small, Republican states, whose Democratic primaries wouldn't, in the general scheme of things, amount to diddly-squat.
Except this year - this election - they do. If only because of the fact that, due to the vagaries of the primary calender, these are the last outposts on a road so long many of us stopped travelling it some time ago. We returned to our daily lives, watching from an ever increasing distance as the two candidates moved on, dwindling into the distance.
But we can still see them, out there in the vastness of the Badlands. Look: there's Clinton, waving her arms and mouthing - well, it's difficult to hear. Papa la vole, papa la vole... Could that be it?
And that's Obama, over there. It's looks like he's trying to turn around, to get back to us. But Clinton won't let him, and each time he tries, she grabs him tight and they're off again, into the distance.
But there's a line drawn across the emptiness between those two outposts, and today they'll cross it. And what will happen then?
Perhaps they'll vanish there in a puff of dust, only to re-appear right in front of us. Re-invigorated, somehow, by their ordeal, with Obama somehow larger, and Clinton smiling at him.
Or perhaps they'll just keep going once the line is crossed, tumbling across the landscape like a dustball, certain only of mutual defeat.
Who can tell, so early in the morning?