ONE THING I KNOW is that you write every day. You write every day and you’re on the sea. At the dawn of time, among the seaweed and mollusks, jellyfish and other invertebrates, in the yellow sand-wrapped prehistory, you were there under an ultramarine sky, with your cocoa skin and cocoa hair and cocoa breath and awful secrets, playing with small fish in the tidal pools, watching the light dance through the ripples like electricity, licking your fingers clean when the ice cream melted. In the gray spring I was there, standing aloof among the German graveyards, the lifeless lake waters, gray hobbled limbs of trees, gray weathered flowers of moss, cold and chill and grayed, thinking of the sands and of you and of your awful secrets and of the water. This is how we connect through time, like light dancing through gulf ripples, touching sediment and snails, then back up again, bearing sun and fossil fragments of eternity.