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April 5, 2007
Before the last note passed your lips my eyes were closing. Lids falling, slowly erasing the pond, the glass, the room, and leaving only brief shadow memories of what that life was. I was defined most probably by myself, somewhat loosely and frequently by pain. I was target for my own arrows. I was--what did you call itólawless imagination. I was a future much too narrowly defined by its past, a victim of history. And I may still be lawless imagination. But a note has passed your lips, and so many things are now just things from before.