Every memory is its own regret. Two years, or three, or eight. Eight sounds right. Terry and Julie. A different bridge, a different time of day. And yes, cryptic is another cheat, wanting thoughts to be out in the world, still wanting that howl to be something other than an echo, for the world to know, but not wanting to actually say anything. Yours was a peculiar strength, to be so careful with your words, so careful to whom you offered them. Conversations about conversations. I know. I want this to exist. That's all really. And the other things. I search for some other things and there you are, walking down the Knapp, saying things you wish you hadn't, not saying things you wish you had. So I'll say things, and not say things. For now, just this.