July 13 is a little tiny raft in the sea moored to the ocean floor. The fishing vessels and sailboats are passing by it as it recedes from my view, becoming smaller and smaller, less and less real, (if we are talking about the densely packed real my human limitations are capable of knowing).
I think I'll write badly, or overly maudlin or childish or spell things wrong. It won't matter. It's just me and you, blog. I'm tempted to say "it's just me and you, Mom, and pretend this site is something like sitting by a headstone and pouring your heart out to it. I can't do that if there is even a chance that someone else might read it, though. I can say this. The picture I call Mom Confidential and the Hands are really comforting for some reason. Miss you. I wish there was a sequence of letters I could write to bring you back. I'd spend every waking moment trying get it right. They broke the Enigma Machine's code, didn't they?
Your mother now knows that I was not the culprit in the Great Carpet Defacement of 1960.
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