I wonder if you see the problem
of my answering of the door.
My
potential—sitting on a bench in
Union Square—during a short
dry spell. Misread
words (pre-
sently idiot for latté) start at
cute joke and end in labyrinth-
ian prison. Is this
something
to take comfort in? I
hang out
with Fred while bumping Ryan.
The strategy gets perverse.
Per-
haps, however, a glass of water
is just a glass of water.
Chimney
soot and pigeon poop.
A relaxed
friend is viable. Yet
I am sick
with attraction. And
Netherlands
actually exists. To
celebrate (I
am an optimist, after all), I send
my love a note. Your granma
is really beautiful.
