I regret nothing after meeting you. I was in a place of despair and I found a letter. A letter found a bus. A bus found you. I found purpose, again.
And purpose brings me here, to a Fresno-sized swamp that plays at being Rome, where I sleepwalk through sharp-elbowed yuppies running off cliffs.
Is there really any purpose to this? Writing is whistling into a tunnel with a train coming; organizing is arguing about the direction of a burning house.
Sometimes, I envy you for leaving so early. It’s a cruel decade facing us.