I could talk about you. If I wanted to. I could talk about lending, or fucking, or knowing. I could talk about emergency rooms, and unemployment, and Meniere. I could talk about nervous laughter, and security, and insecurity. I could talk about entire Sunday afternoons spent getting drunk, or smoking, or gambling. I could talk about being ultimately blissful, generally thrilled, and hazily ecstatic. If I wanted to. I could talk about wants, and needs, and satisfaction. I could talk about plans, and ideas, and tricks - and whether or not they’re really tricks. I could talk about fingertips, and feet, and hair. I could talk about fear for family, and fear for family, and fear for family. If I wanted to. I could talk about you, or you could talk about me. I could talk to you, but more often than not – as we both already know - it’s going to be you talking to me. I don’t know if it’s important that we all understand this, because it’s hard to talk about understanding. And it’s hard to talk about you. And it’s hard to talk about me. And it’s hard, and more important than any of us realize. I can’t help it. If I wanted to.