This morning I got up and did my round with my note book, like one of the nurses. I went from door to door and wrote down the names of the folks I had spent the last month partying with--that weird, tenth floor jive. Those names are worth the stories I will write for them and of them and them of me. Each name a crystal through which I glimpse a shimer of my self dancing.

Laughing is good. I've decided I like it better than crying, though crying is nice too, and Joni says they are the same release when she sings of her peoples parties. It is good to be home again and sitting at this desk under this light and at these keys looking at this screen. This is me again, and it wasn't me before--that's what we say, eh?

PEACE - Tristan