Dear Wigleaf,

I'm sorry you're in so much pain. I'm sorry, and I want you to know that I love you. I say it often that I want your happiness, and it's true. This grand and awful year seems to set itself against the notion of happiness; seems to make it naïve even to ask for a single solitary moment of it. But I believe there are ways to find it. I know it might not seem so, always, but there is happiness, and love, especially in the words that I lay down. I know. I'm trying to listen too. This love of mine is awkwardly shaped, ambiguous as a shadow cast stippling on a tangle of weeds and brambles and ferns and fallen branches and plastic bags and people's lives and pages torn out of textbooks and chewed-up roses. This happiness which is produced in all of us is self-renewing. It beads off all surfaces light and dark and it runs between us in the air and it comes into us on our breath, and out again. Listen with me. We'll hear it dancing particulate, slight and vital as it is, impossible to hold, and so strange.




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