More? From 1/2002:

Allen, Ron, to whomever your nickname points:

You mistake my questions for answers yet answer them with questions? I'm
all squiggles with pointed sticks inverted. See? Here's a diagram:


Got it?

Let me explain, Allen Ron Casey Jones whoever you are--watch your speed!
I'm merely spent coal dust blown off the Detroit Lightning homeward bound
heading east from Santa Fe. That is, I don't mind being dirt and the breeze
could not be more generous to my wanderings. I may not live forever but
then we can't always roll around in the bushes; sometimes the river floods.
Besides, that pole-pointed shaft of light looks like an army of lonesome
sleeping soldiers when seen all shattered from shining through the trees.
Whether you miss me when I'm gone is really all that matters; it's the
missing that keeps us rolling--like the shattered light, it's the crazy
quilt that keeps us warm. We can always end up moving much too slow, but
then, that where all lines end, even the ones that mime the still lattice of
ice. Knowing where the line ends tells us nothing about the trees we pass.
Have you answered my question yet?

Pass the wine, Gwyn. A swig for Allen. Then pass it to Candice, Casey
Jones whoever you are. Some may call it our time: so long to be gone, so
short to be here.

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