A Letter

I've had two large glasses of shiraz and am already a little silly. I half want to cry and half want to laugh off the past few days. I need to stop reading the speech of aristophanes from the Symposium; it's depressing the hell out of me. Christoph is playing bizarre spanish jazz next door.

Cummings says:

the trick of finding what you didn't lose
(existing's tricky:but to live's a gift)
the teachable imposture of always
arriving at the place you left

and Yeats says:

But boys and girls pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough.

But I have no answers; nothing to say, really, except that the wine was sweet, that I've had a tough week. And I like Spanish jazz and you, reader.

yours in affection,
Adithi