I write you always from that which sits atop my head, which at the moment, specific in time only, has swollen to a proportion large enough to fill a sheet of paper, if not entirely, then just enough. Does it beg of a response, not always, quite possibly not at all, it is only a moment shared, for you- a response is your own and sometimes only serves to say thank you and that I have read your letter, never do I expect you to let clouds fall upon a piece of paper, of course, and et al, is sometimes more than enough. We love, all of us, in ways so far removed from one another I wonder sometimes if we ourselves are capable of understanding where it comes from, and then can another, simply I do not know- I am reading your letter and am without words, to say the least, it was unexpected- life is much larger then us sometimes, its complexities transcend everything which we are, time especially is nothing more than that which it already is…if I had seen your letter I would have picked it up; the doubt which you feel for me stems deep within…

I think of love sometimes and I see mountains folding, the world and all its oysters standing, open, love, all of us…

To an extant, which is to say maybe, or, we have- I am using we nonspecifically-stopped loving as children, rather loving as adults, which, if anything, is to have dipped the feather in tar… Namely that we have given to something which- taken the sky from a cloud, taken the clouds from the sky and put them in a jar, yet in a way we have to, but to find somewhere in the middle, ah, the though is that which is not only a burden lifted but glows with the hope that maybe, hopefully, and- sometimes I look at you walking and I think I have become, or am becoming my father, and your hand becomes worlds away. Life, love, these are beyond us, larger than what we imagine ourselves to be. If I have as of late, or ever, or again, fail to show you the affection which in my heart of hearts I have for you, it is not that I do not love you, or that I am not in love with you, the reasons are an infinite amount of possibilities, none of which justify the act, or even offer consolation, an explanation, but as we are, our thoughts at times so become us, overtake us, and we become captive to the intangible fleeting whims of the children upstairs who run the show…