Things and thoughts have been rushing by too quickly these days for me to plaster words over them, to cement them into the permanence of prose; life has been a breathless string of conversations and commotions, the kind of semi-confusion that barges in from all quarters when the future shakes you by the hand as the past taps on your shoulder, the strange meetings with people you know but don't really like, and those you like but don't really know—that sort of January where the new year comes tumbling noisily through the door and you stand by the side waiting for things to compose themselves, for the talking to cease and the dust to settle.
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