Thus my beloved when we were parting after our morning coffee a short while ago. This is what she tells me every now and then, with feeling. She knows how much writing means to me. That is, she knows that it is my way of keeping in touch with myself. Checking on myself. Making sure that all is well with myself. To her credit, she is not jealous of this old love of mine. And love it surely is. Not of writing, it goes without saying, but of my own self. Requited almost without remainder, too. As witnessed by my own writing, no less.