There was so much to write about that year. India’s journal was predictable in red and gold filigree, curry smeared in the pages of Shantonab’s cookbook. Chili wanted to stay for a month free of charge, which was all right with Africa because she didn’t like being alone at night anyway. Sanford was everywhere with too much to say and very lovely blue eyes. There were babies and corkscrews and pinot noir came with every plat du jour that winter, for some reason. CNN had an article on a man who boiled his girlfriend, which someone asked someone else if he would ever do to her and the reply was, typically, no. Reassurance is sweet like honey in the ear canal, if you’d care to mix metaphors. (Honey and earwax would make bees even yellower, and hives would have bee Q-tips sticking out everywhere which they would buzz up to and then wiggle themselves against these tiny Q-tips to get it out, and only then would they carry it in with little black feet for the queen’s palatial glory.) Like them, I collected words that season to paste haphazard in the pages of electronic mail, words with meanings carefully stored up but which never did make sense in context.