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.
