June 29, 2001
That this world is large & inexpressibly beautiful & intrinsically screwed up. That love and injustice fuck every Thursday night. That hope is the thing with feathers, Hitchcock's kind, the sort that bite children. That you inhale my air, that I exhale yours. That we don't make eye contact, that I do not know your name. That we speak of important things in important tones; that we are remembering, we draw these lines. That you hold a stone behind your back; that you know how to aim. That there is so much left to do, so much left to do.