He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be, and if all else remained, and we were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger… He’s always, always in my mind; not as a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.
It’s another hot Iowa City summer night and in the woods, the trees hang tired and droopy. Black leaves gently shiver against a cascade of smoke rising from a 10-foot-high bonfire. Sparks of flame jaunt into the sky and crackle alongside an endless drone of mating insects. A huge hand-painted mural covered in dreamlike poetic