Low intimacy makes me a hollow pillar. It can't be good for me. Or is it? A whirlwind is also impermeable. Or is it? A skater gathers in her arms and legs and spins, faster, faster, until her form is blurred and her face impenetrable. But these spins don't continue on and on forever. You have to come out of it. You have to. You have to.

Dear Oblivious, I hope you are not too sad. The sunrise told me you were sad. I'm not sure if I believe it, but it does seem likely. There's a good chance that we are all sad. We all have reason to be. We all stand in a meadow of sadness. We are all basically still, standing still, and struck dumb, looking down at our scuffed boots lost in the frosted grass. Some tears come and if we're lucky we have kleenex. We go there because it's the most honest place to be. Much more honest than a dream at four o'clock on a December afternoon.

Dear Reality, why do you hide from me? Why don't you surround me with your redness and your roses? I'm sure you are here somewhere, replete with your own store brands of textures and aromas, like cloth, like food, so scrumptious. Don't make the mistake of being coy with me. I'll track you down, you can't help leaving traces.