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  • Dear Dean,
    You traipsed across France and surprised the hell out of me by showing up in a medieval village after dinner one night. I never thought I deserved a gesture like that, but I always fantasized that it would happen... and then you did that. Thank you. We strolled across the Luberon Valley, from one village to another; ate walnuts and figs off the trees as we walked. When we got thirsty, we put our mouths to a "source" and drank from a Roman-built fountain head.

    I cannot believe the things we did. It turns out that I have, in fact, lead exactly the kind of life- had exactly the kind of love affair- I'd always imagined. We stormed a barricade together: knocked it down and lunged at the baton-wielding police on the other side.

    Anyway. If, as Kris asserts, time is just a construct, I only understand that when I think about us. Time collapses on itself and you and I are lost in Mexico City looking for the Zapatista camp at UNAM; or dumpstering dozens of Krispy Kremes and bringing them back to your brother's (non-racist) skin-head friends; or you, me and Tim are swinging, nekkid, from a rope at Barton Creek. I'm watching you, right now, at a hardcore show roaring as you get sucked into a crowd of thrashing bodies. You're pounding the floor with you fists. That's happening and it's as astonishing now as it was then. So, I'm writing now to tell you that what has stopped has also continued.

    Anyway...
    Love (I don't care what you say)
    Jess
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