Pre-dawn. I’m groggy. You draw me to our desk, our milieu safe, your intent, crystalline. Your skin, smooth, cool to my touch, awakens me. I pick up my pen and we begin. Conjoined twins, we share a single brain. Communicators, over our lifetime, we aspire to impose form upon reverie. More often, though, we revisit unresolvable, old arguments and -isms knowing that at day’s end, we’ll shred them. Still, we labor to array our words into thematic sensibility. The work is maddening. Your patience reassures me-- screeching screeds never daunt you. We decided long ago to allow our discourse to wander where it will: And that keeps us sane.