In reply to

Unfold the tattered pages, stapled at the corner. Smooth the wrinkles, spread the words, smell the anticipation. Curious, with my first letter, a letter, a real letter. Written in ink, a pen's ink, in a flowing script I strain to read: this is not Times New Roman -- no, this is human. And what will I find today? I'll hold my breath and see.

"You are free now, you've been set free, you've been liberated." Is this what you've been looking for? Permission? "Please," reads my narrator, "Please, show me Saturn's rings, the butterflies' wings and how the faeries in Neverland sing." Someone saw, someone read, and responded. I stirred the broth, with a dash of basil and passion and rosemary and love. And now the soup satisfies with love.

"Would you compare a friend to a soup?" But aren't all friend's soup? A delicious blend of 70% water and all of life's ingredients? And they're comforting on a dreary day, awful at the wrong times, and if you stick them in the fridge they'll congeal and become stiff to you. People are soup, and writers stir the pot.

If you'll believe it, writers season the soup; if you'll understand, the soup inspires the writer. But here's the thing: writers are soup too. Therefore some soups are writers. And this soup, that's just strengthened me... no, he's not a writer. He writes. And that is far better.

Do you want to be a writer, or to write? A haunting question. One that stills the pen and tosses me upon my bed, that rolls about in my head like the ballast in a ship. And this ship will not stop rolling till the ballast settles.

I'm wide awake. I'm not sleeping.

Do you want to know? Mount Rainier is growing. So is the moon. No one will believe me; no one agrees. I tell you they are! Bigger by the sunset. Bigger at midnight. "We flatten things, put them on postcards," states my little black book. We consider the horizon a wallpaper. But it's real. It's not the edge of life. It's getting bigger. Look up from your couch. Look at your wallpaper. You live inside this, but it's not just for decoration. It's getting bigger. I tell you, the mountain and the moon -- they're growing.

Can I say: in Neverland, the streets aren't numbered. If you want to find me, you'll have to search. You can't dial my number. You have to walk the cobblestones, between the ivy on the alley walls. And after you find me, I won't answer your question on the doorstep. You'll have to come in for tea.