Although your birthday is not until November, your gift is being compiled. It has to do with the fictional place of Yoknapatawpha county -- those familial streets we've dis-assembled upon touching, dis-assembled again in remembering the burning of our soles. I intentionally did not use the phrase "familiar streets". They are more to us now than simply knowing.
Our correspondence is shifting - letters to poems to letters. Do not be alarmed. There is comfort here, in fiction, in mississippi. Rivers to be found, and all that nonsense.
I am going to drink a glass of wine and ruminate on the collection of words, on bears, on how to scavenge for newness.