Sitting in the café while waiters clear the tables in the red glowing sunset I hear stories about you mowing the lawn, picking up the dry cleaning, stories of common tasks and chores meant to make you happy but there was not description of a smile, the music of life was absent. I wanted to ask if she was good to you, if she lifted the monoliths from your shoulders as you slept, if you were still playing at being Atlas or Prometheus… but the CIA would know nothing of these things.

January 25 2010