There is little to resist. The isolation from this larger world, the bonier context I had written of years ago, it looms. Something in that, “it looms.” The loom of this life before us, no more nightmares. At some point ingrained dada-ism must appear as schizophrenia, not that I am not allowed it. But why, no real trauma, only a progression of disappointments and short, sharp instances of trivial violence. Rather born this way, being bent again and again. Now the unfurling instead, as trivial as everything else, but the nobility of loving children and making a life with you. Instead of peering into the gap between the pronouns of ‘you’ and ‘I’, seek myself in your gesture, the ‘you’ I can become in your gaze.