4 a.m.

Pausing for the last cigarette of the evening, in an open doorway, it seems that the rain is sulfuric. In this town nobody would argue. It's more a trick of the light, I think, the sodium lamps put the yellow-orange cast across everything and glitter through each droplet - and when something is cold enough it will feel hot.

The rainwater slithers over the grey-black titanium ice - titanic ice, seeking it's level. From directly above, it looks like an aerial shot of an overflowing river spilling across the plain of a vast, unknown geography. From above, the snowbanks are like mountains rising up from and overlooking the floodplains and rivers... If one can imagine themselves several thousand feet above ground level

This notion has occurred to me before. It always leaves me feeling solitary. Witness to something that may or may not be aesthetic, but is invariably inconsequential. Perhaps this keeps things in perspective, but I'd rather be doing something relevant than simply walking home...

to Framboise, somewhere in America

I suppose I'm thanking you, albeit in a backhanded way, by writing this. Your words describe somethig very close to what I was feeling. At some point. I wouldn't tell you or anybody else the specifics anyway, and that would be so besides the point.

It's never exact, is it? It seems to me that perhaps nobody ever feels Exactly the same thing, between two or more of us. Sometimes that makes it easier, doesn't it? Not quite like being alone. Then again it's also a reminder that we will always be just that. After all...

If that's all we have to connect on, then it's happened spectacularly. And quietly.

I come back over and again for the sentiments you sublimate to writing that make me feel - at least someone else has been through similar... if not the same

well anyway, thanks. You express yourself with a unique eloquence