Moonlight from the wide night smears across my stretched skin in the pattern of the rippled pane through which it fills the room. It starts with the memory of her sitting near, but on another bed, in a time when stillness such as this was a secret we shared, and spoke again repeatedly through fingertips, and glance and gesture, and time was carried only by her breathing, the rise and fall, the moving photograph of Miranda.

1. You can wear my clothes.
2. What are you thinking?
3. Have you ever slept with a prostitute?
4. I don't understand why you're so upset.

... unfinished text as of January 19, 1994 ...