We stopped for coffee in the Redwood forest. Giant dripping leaves. Spoons of powdered cream. I wanted to kiss you, but wasn't sure how. Like those indians lost in the rainforest, forced to drag burning wood wherever they went. They had all forgotten how to start a fire. This is why people OD on pills and jump from the Golden Gate Bridge. Anything to feel weightless again. Those poor, lost indians-when the white men found them, most died of TB; the rest went insane. In our motel room you're drinking Slice and gin, reading Moby Dick on the other bed. Remember the first time we slept together? You said it felt like when you learned to float.