We are assured of nothing. Yet as we spoke - you from a distance, me at an unwilling center - one sensed a general, a kindly movement on which rest was possible. Perhaps it is simply like staring up at the stars and not drawing on your knowledge of galaxies. We are what we assume? Please, only facts are acceptable where the road branches.
One asks what it means to aspire at all? Or eat aspirin in the morning, fending off the worst of the night before's whiskey. The tractor was broken and our breath hung in the air as we cleaned the lines, all to no avail. One trudges, one does. One begins to assemble an argument, as if God really were a judge.
I tried to be calm at a difficult time and could only pretend to admire the clouds gathering in the distance. In the presence of newspaper journalists, one is either prone to fibbing or not. Dessert was good. Later we will walk into the desert together. It might be a psalm I'm after.
No envelope can contain what the letter actually means! And that is the whole problem of form. The twenty sentences forget where they're going and end up in a forest, metaphorically speaking. It's late and I really do want that jigger of whiskey. Can you be quiet now, can you melt into the candle?
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