And back in. Each microcassette like a suitcase full of dreams, the machine bleating on my lap as I boot the editor again. Still Obie sleeps on, God who gives joy to my youth.
He’s a wonder to me, I wonder can you see that, I see more now with the gift of his eyes than I would ever have seen. Thus when I wrote earlier, in the little suitcase labelled one now there on the table, about his choking on little things and how I fear that, I recalled, as clearly as a dream, you saying once, “They learn the world with their mouths.”