Dear San Diego,
It's night. It's always night. But always a clear night. The sort when the moon bounces the sun strong. You can see things. Enough to navigate.
Despite perspective, the moon is always the same size everywhere in the world. Not like in the movies where it's too big to be true. Most everything is too big to be true. Most people believe everything isn't.
Realists dream of the espied. Everyone else the convenient irrelevant. Life as a thing to live but in living it just a cast member in a commercial. They should print more Nietzsche greeting cards. More the truth of rough beauty. All the great and wondrous things we have lost. Souls in cast-off lifeboats speaking to the stars.
No one may know another. Not in the connection of flesh, shared bond of child, in words spoken, or glances. We are all perfect strangers that are simply closer or further in physical proximity.
There is nothing in the proverbial India to find. No revelation to alter course. Just a long flight.
Parker handed me an envelope.
"I want you to have this, but don't open it."
Sitting up on the roof later in the day I held it up to the sun and could only make out...
"...for no other reason than no one else in your life will ever send you the words that I have."
As has always been the case in the summer, I am often stirred by the wind that blows strong through the apartment at night. It whips down from the mountains, across the field, and streams through the place. It's then I get off the couch and find myself drawn to going outside and standing in the middle of the intersection. Quiet, forsaken, a highway in the middle of nowhere. Once in a while I'll see a deer or a moose. Sometimes I'll see myself.
That night, the envelope stuffed in my back pocket, I went downstairs and out into the street. Pulling out a pen I flattened the envelope against the pavement and wrote...
"Esteem the loss of all the responses never written. The sea or landfall."