* Before I turn into another parabola of you, yours, I should take myself out and stay out, crabbed, hesitant to set off emotion that might fail. There’re signs you just want to cry — and it’s not a bad smell, just sad or whiffy in dimness when I wake up. It all goes well. You and I take off, tho. One by one. Reasons are weather related, paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, a lilac-dark cloud and offshore atmospheres yesterday, the day before. Winds shifted and I barely pertain, and why should I? It would be contradictory and limitlessly impolite to insist we’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. That you and I are taking time to sift through (even the slightest) parts here would be a datum of expository coincidence. I cherish your transitioning into mine, bringing it up to me every day yet I can’t presume what we can’t express, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the 1st letters of the alphabet. Suppose they were the first. A. You B. want C. back in — me too. Where are they?