A young yellow light lay across the covers on our first mornings. Your words rose, strong and new above us, mingling with dust that shimmered in slanted bands of morning air. They danced like whirling dervishes through literature and music and philosophy, an assortment of collegiate fascinations to match my own. Was it Milan Kundera you’d been reading? You’d certainly been listening to Beirut. In those days you followed music nearly as closely as politics and we’d both read the most recent New Yorker and Economist.
You worry someday we’ll run out of things to say.
Here’s hoping we haven’t even reached the best of it yet.