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February 19, 2008
Last night, you stood beneath a smoky sun, you and twelve orange-draped monks. That golden light. Your hands and faces covered in dirt, cradling fat, glossy tomatoes between your dusty fingers.

Words I could not read, a script i did not recognize, meticulously spread across a sheet of vellum. You unrolled this before me - this is your work.

Miles away, my work. Chasing invisible particles down endless corridors. I donít know why they stop flowing. I only know when they begin again, but I seldom know why. I am paid to pretend I have something to do with it.