2001-11-08 - 11:02 a.m.
Old friends, old memories.
With time we learn to cope with it.
With time we experience, get hurt, and forget to tell all.
Gaps in our stories, so many, where do we start?
How?
Lets huddle for six nights and exchange journal entries.
There'll be candles, wine, and Ella.
Then come the drunken tears and you'll speak your saturated mind.
This yearly ritual marks the highlight of our virtual communication.
We meet, we touch, and things are as they were when we were fourteen.
We make unspoken rules, and as a rule of thumb never lapse into academic discussions.
Words flow freely, silences telepathically interpreted.
Then it'll be over,
We depart and live our little lives again.
We'll always be a plane ticket away, a sixteen-hour temporal lag separating our present states of affairs.
