A very slow correspondence

A letter to a friend that I have been writing for a very long time. A letter that grew too big for its britches (somewhat like its author). A letter that just oozes on and on rather than coming to end like a dignified letter would.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

I just don't know what I'm doing

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations. -Anais Nin
And I wonder if this explains my butt?

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