Wow, you’re so gorgeous.
Did I
embarrass you going on like that
for nearly nine years?
Almost
nothing makes you blush.
And
you even love how each birthday
makes you one year older.
What
does it mean when I freak out
because I can’t remember if it’s
nine years or ten years nearly?
How can there still be so many
mysteries? Last
night—halfway
through—it gets STRANGER!
Only now does my mind wander.
What allowed this, me or my
mind? I think of Strangers
on a Train and the
game of
Freud. Masculine is
not an
amoeba (rock on! own
it!).
I think I have a couple of
short strokes. I
sketch
them into a number
(maybe 184?). How
can I find war this
interesting? How
surprising who
brings us back
to such proper
focus. How
thankful to
have chosen
our guests so
appropriately.
How thankful
to have cast our
co-stars so brilliantly.
To have that luxury.
Collapse into hav-
ing that luxury.
