Excerpt from my Letter to Brenna, 3 September 2007

Right now in Portland, thick, teeming rainclouds hang low in the sky, only partially masking a brilliant sunset like a blindfold carelessly tied. All the worn brick warehouses and the light glass office towers are warmly glowing tonight. Every color is alive in this light, and all the frailties, all the ruined pieces showing through the potholes and the tired faces are softened and even somewhat mended. The wind moves gently and the whole street stirs.

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