How many years, brother, since the world of our birth stamped us and walked away? How can it be the year of your death again, so soon? As your dates fade, so do my own; the line between those dates the smallest bridge we'll ever hope to cross. Your place of address likewise has disappeared, along with telephone, labor union, and social security numbers; the baseball statistics you mapped meticulously when we were kids. What good are such figures now, and what good the weight and measurements of the body? Every number fades, every combination cancelling the other, until all that remains is an empty circle leading back and back to the inscrutable, singular You.
