Eight hundred miles for you.
Eight hundred miles for me.
What can I say?
It's not so hapless.
It's not so harsh.
I can take it.
So I sit on the porch and I listen to traffic.
I read the paper.
This is water.
This is wood.
This is your living room.
This feels good.
Half fiction, half documentary.
I'm right on. no.
I don't know.
There is distance more than miles.
But our ideas are adjoining canals.
