So much wasted time, dripping like the yolk of eggs from the edge of a saucer. It drips onto the linoleum to be lapped up by a passing cat or else trod upon by the aimless stamping feet of a waitress whose aloof demeanor says that she really believes another glass of Pepsi is what I need to be happy. But you, you are not Pepsi. The sweet satisfaction you provide cannot be dispensed by anyone in the service industry.
   I'm sitting here in this diner, watching the rain waste its time against the window. So impotent an assault against so pitiful a bastion. It's not the rain that's got my spirit damp. It's not the gloomy haze or the clouds' refusal to share the sky with sunlight that's pushing my palm against my cheek. It's not the broken springs in the booth seat. It's this god damned distance. You are in Georgia now, working at the things you're good at. I'm here in Indiana, splashing against the window, being eaten alive by wasted time.
    It would seem, from the above testimony, that I am a man depressive and unsociable. I suppose it's hard to judge intrinsically. I'll let you decide when I come to you, clean and sunny, ready to fall asleep against the gentle rise and fall of your breast, listening as you hum quaker melodies into my ear. I will dream of the same paradise that I always have. Now, though, it doesn't peel up as the wallpaper on the insides of my eyelids. It will be there in full reality and such splendor as to blind the mightiest of gods. You have no idea what you do to me.
    Love, defined, is to speak your name.