Dear Wigleaf,

Shall we pretend the floor is glass and goes on and on in horizontal splendor? A horizon below of layering clear, ever cool in its simple color scheme. Warm resin. Crisp blue. Sheer white. We are a magazine feature on beauty. We are an advertisement for Pall Malls in the pallor of deep health. Oceanic. The redemption available is in the click of an offer. The redemption is when a vista becomes the ground you stand on then bend your knee, starry. Folding forth is not enough, though, is it? Soon we slip into the honey mud of the railroad foyer, sea green in its reflective mirth. Don't worry, Dear. The mirror stage can't last forever; even Lacan presented a hall pass. There is something beyond painting the beyond. Beyond is the wrong word, though. The something may be summed up in the hip. But why summarize when we can swivel?

Thank you for having me in your guest room. Thank you for the invitation to climb the gelatinous gravel to your worth. Even the gaze of six million monks cannot puncture this cerulean advertisement we made of us, the hallway across the sky and into our small bodies stuck like gum to one another's walk. How we shook it. We looked good together, didn't we?

Thanks Again xoxoxo

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Read JLR's story.

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