a mile on high warmed by a friend's stolen sweater and a gumball machine bracelet. one thousand four hundred and eighty seven miles from the house that isn't a home. snow filled skies and mountains yesterday, while i touched the horn of a buffalo. i looked him in the eye wondering if he knew that he was once endangered. my money runs like water, the luxery of fine dining, new records and old books. my dusty finds smiled toward scandinavia with the titles of knut hamsun and pär lagerkvist leading the pack. mr. cummings added 6 nonlectures on _i_ to my collection and i hope that mr. kundera will touch my friend as he has me (with hands smaller even than the rain). snow has melted to bring a beautiful day - my detroit friends must have brought it back with them. spent several hours on a black couch in st. louis. there, where a boy was torn to pieces by wild dogs. i wish it was a metaphor.