The echo of image, reminding us that the present is only a millisecond behind now. "I can't be here," Jude said, walking down the stairs, walking as if there was a now to walk away from. She won't leave, not forever. We're always only reflections of one another, and confused in the way solitude confuses the like-minded, the ones who want to believe their alone, and make their lives lonely to achieve the resistance to symbolism, representation, revision (which is only a rewriting, not a re-representing, not a change); we all feel the same emotions, even if we feel them differently. I lost myself again today. In a dream jesus appeared, a portrait of jesus, with one eye cut out and a real one replacing it, like the old film-trope of spies, and that was all: a portrait of jesus with one real eye. The density of the moments, yesterday in Tompkins Square Park, like a tiger-lily fading away, it's all a reaching and a cutting. Like to tear, from the Greek derein: to flog. Yes. Then we move to our own stipulations, and I cut away the sadness from the world, if only for a minute. The strange graveyards in heaven. The condo's on the river Lethe. These are where I walk and think. About war: none of it makes sense, only senseless bodies. I want to reach out to places I have never heard of and tell the people there that there are people here. But then there's spacetime, and the warping of the universe, and the inability to reach just far enough. I reach for you Jude.