I wanna live on your street, Bob. Mind you, my such street is a whole village filled, not with envy and the boredom of blocked horizons, but with a sweet reciprocating danger line between us and the moose and the bears – so much for you, so much for me, and that traveling salesman of doom, the cougar, she is too honest to make many sales, because who wants that many claws and snarls and torn consequences? Still, she’s welcome at the hootenanny, too, and a bowl of stew sits waiting up on a boulder we hauled into relationship with the rest of the circular economy we practice here, along with variations on the heartbeat drum and that Slavic chord my friend Darrin tells me depends on a second, whatever that means, I’ve got all the time in the world for it, and high Cree voices restitching the path of such eagles as tore through about an hour ago, chasing the wind for no big purpose, just because we can, and that’s better than splitting atoms and breaking ecosystems and confusing teen girls instead of telling them straight that the glory of women is an old kind of glory, non-instagrammable but everywhere present, standing by the tall boulders, hands on hips, face glowing a moonlike sweat of work done, and work in process, and places set and throat open to song, waiting for the news. 

Here’s me jumping with all hooves straight into the correspondence reported here https://robertokaji.com which reminds the likeminded of all we find that binds us to the Lucent.