...the societal rasputin...

Greg, answering non-committal "what's up?": Not too much, making plans and stuff (aside: he wasn't. He never has plans) - this week looks like it's going to be busy.

Dude. Don't even tell me that. My life is defined by busy. Sleep is an obscure fiction I heard about once. Maybe I'll experience it sometime. In the meantime, I go on, I go on...

There is a photography book by Roloff Beny called "A Bridge of Turquise". I showed it to Lizzy yesterday and decided I would bring it at some time to show Nick as well. Have any of you seen this book? It's gorgeous. Every family we know has one - it's a book of photographs of Iran, the people, the architecture, divided by theme. And in the midst of the photos, he includes text from different poets and Iranian thinkers. Lines of Hafez, verses of Rumi, beautifully written in script.

The reason I am so mean to Greg is that I want him to stop trying. I want him to stop being there, stop calling, stop doing everything. I have been trying to escape him since the 10th grade, and I can't understand why he won't just get a clue. You think that's a horrible thing to say, but you have never met him. He's the kind of person you need a court order to really escape. And he has two active ones against him already.

I was walking along Kensington today and saw a statuette of Casper the Friendly Ghost. I thought of you. (No not you - the other you).