I do miss you, Fitzcarraldo...

You're always there to point out every last thing. You don't miss a goddamn second. It's because you're so still, like a tortoise on a rock. Meanwhile for me it's a blur--every second presses into the one before like train cars shooting around the bend.

"Where can I see some of your writing?" Will demands. We're standing beside the couch. I have my hand on the pillows.

"I don't know," I answer.

"What does that mean? Where are they?"

"I can't tell you."

I'm not ready for him to know about this site. Or about the products and the philosophies. I came out here to think, I tell myself. But time is passing and like the end of the movie fade-out, soon I have to make my way back to New York.

Will wants to know about it, he wants to solve the problem--make it come true regardless of the fact that I have to be somewhere. Somehow this is a failing on his part. I try and impress upon him that the difference is, for the most part, geographical.

"It's about what goes on there. It's the stage. The frontlines. You guys are safe out here." He looked at me blankly. I went on,

"You just wouldn't understand what I'm making there."

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