> I reread this and hope that my words will touch you, and want you to also 
> believe this: just like I don't think that touch is touch is touch, but 
> rather it speaks of something more, I don't think my ability to touch you 
> through writing ("you write too well") is coincidental... I think for 
> whatever reason I have a better view of something that you're seeing only 
> the shadow of now.

Do you believe this?

It's a strange day when it dawns on you that Truth & Beauty don't always
go hand in hand.  

Sometimes they can, though, just like an unknown double integral
can resolve itself to something familiar and comfortable.

I've been thinking about Arthur and Me, and Kyle, and different ways of
dealing with the world.  You said Arthur is intellectual, that you're not
attracted to people who aren't.  I would guess people with Arthur's point of
view see the world, think about the world, see that it's pretty messed up,
and figure that the best way of not getting ensarled by it is to not play
the games it sets up.  People with my point of view see the world, see
it's messed up, but realize it's much more complex and big then it might
first seem, that there's room to play its games but to distance yourself
from that, to follow some of the patterns but to question them, and to
think.  The danger with the first style is that it can be tough to
establish a solid future on that.  The danger with the second is you
forget to protect your center, that too much of the outside world creeps
in, you get some money and become republican or worse.  Kyle is vaguely in
between but off the line: art tries to create a world for itself, and does
some things really well but ends up with its own set of problems. 

Here's something I wrote.  i don't know if I've ever shown it to you,
if so sorry for bringing it twice.
---

"In the steam of hot cider you can find nature. You know?" she smiles at
me over her blue mug, the smile's an invitation, playful and sly.

This is the woman I love, I think to myself. I must win her. Maybe I
already have. Maybe I never will. 

I reach across the table and take her hand from where it is resting on the
mug. I kiss the back of her hand, then the inside of her slender wrist.
She lets me. I linger, holding my lips to her pulse, feel the rhythm of
the solar system against my lips. 

She cups my cheek in her hand. her hand still radiates the heat of the
cider. 

"You love too much," she murmurs, "You think of love as a friend. Love
could hit you up for money, talk about you behind your back, stand you up
when you most need its company, and you would chalk it up to fate, to the
weave of poor fortune.  Never to the cruelties and indifference of love
itself." 

What can you do, when you are in love with a woman like that? 
---

i don't think the woman is you, but she might be talking to me.  


sometime,
kirk