Dear Wigleaf,

I only make plans via postcard. See you April 15, I say, and then I appear. Now that my postcards are lost and found by someone else, I don't know where to appear. I don't know where I am expected. Who will miss me when I fail to arrive?

Ok, no one does that anymore.

But I am expectant of a back-to-nature sensibility, when instead of washing we pluck lavender from the bush. We will probably talk before you read this. I will probably already have said what I have said here.

Does communication speak only for itself? Or, that a source might present itself, for drinking or for life.

This is a given, eventually.


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Read ST's story.

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