I’ve been railing against my insignificance. And it’s worked, in a way: I’ve accepted this insignificance in whatever ways. Gone down its path a ways. Gone down its path a while. And found it true. Am I significant to D? To anyone but (or including) me. There’s something freeing about it. To ignore my own consciousness. To discount it. It’s worth everything, in a way. Watching old movies (Lost In Translation)—funny that I would consider that old. But true—15 or so years old. Remembering sitting in my Grand Avenue apartment in Dayton, watching this film over and over getting drunk. And years of therapy. Rishi gone, coming back—we did our best and yet now I consider my time with D to be my best love ever, I miss the old ones. Rebecca, Astrea, Ashley and such. So far back in time it dips my boat and spills the water. Time spent painting on the weekends, evenings, time spent writing my first book (Snowbunny). Times way before I sat having written that one book on Ashley and Faith’s balcony, drinking Seagrams and water, not knowing what to do. And now, with similar times, similar challenges, I also now know nothing of what to do. Write another book!—it’s good, I will do that, but underneath there is the same still wondering what to do. If I should program something. If I should write what I planned—or something else. The difference is that now I have made some progress in cellular automata. I have made some progress in writing books. And all that matters to me—even if they matter none to anyone else.