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June 4, 2004
While out walking, on a spring evening, under the full moon, and night blossoms fragrant and wet, he talked. Each step was a word; each word filled him with existence. Afraid to shut his mouth for fear he'd become invisible, he kept at it, his mouth flapping while we walked around the lake. When we'd started our walk, the sky was the color of flight. Let me explain. The color of flight is, while driving to the airport at five in the morning, a deep dark blue. Silence is the one word he's yet to master. His footsteps are fine.