| Do I know who I am by where I am? I am here. Who was there, Brooklyn, two weeks ago? Or walking on a pier, on the shore of the Pacific, in the month of June? I am my memory also. I miss your words. Everything has a name but the name is only the clothing of the thing. What is it when naked? We make things with our hands and then they escape us. Is it any wonder the meaning of things is elusive? Do we know where our next step will take us? Love ans Peace, George |