Dear Wigleaf,

What, precisely?

Exactly. That is what I was thinking.

You. Me. Eternity. Anything can happen. 2:22 am. Eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit in the apartment. Sixty-eight percent humidity. New York City is a swamp in August. Why live here? People do.

I am a garage philosopher. I am a cosmic thinker. I am an adjunct lecturer of the human imagination. Even I do not know what that means. I try to transfer the dharma to people. Some unspoken truth. A few get it.

Sure is hard, pal. Hard to be a person. You have to show up every day. Here I am. I guess.

There is nothing to get, just this now.

Not hard at all.

You.
Me.
I.

Already yours,
René Georg Vasicek




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