i thought i had something for you today, but i don’t. i just assumed that i had, in between conversations and books and other people—but i only had a grey morning, and a nothing in it. i had a wondering where the hell were you, too, but that hardly counts. i had a thought for the road, but it was halfhearted. i could never take a drive, so i thought about the pavement mostly—that was the real thing—but i couldn’t latch on to it; it was too flat, too dull, too burdened with this time that we cannot predict, this time that no one knows.