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The sermon for Monday, Jul. 01, 2002 is: notes left on the mirror 12:44 a.m. deary diary, I suddenly and abruptly have been made aware that people read you, which has instilled within me an alien disquiet to make mention of them. I'm so sorry to have violated our pact in this, but I suppose it's in your nature. I've spoken/chatted to more people today than I have in the past... forever of consciousness (take compass and straightedge and slice an arc of my life and total all that conversation, and it would not equal all the talking I've done today): dear Matt, now that I know you read this, I feel I have to censure myself somewhat. I'm now compelled to remove any sour mentions about you in this diary; I was cranky; please forgive me; I love you utterly, you know, I love you still. dear bettina, how are you? dear clara, happy 24th birthday! I hope Buenos Aires is as beautiful and clear as I remember it, and that the southern stars burn bright and yellow above you as the candles on your gateau. dear colleen, i'm sorry if i've given the impression that I think you a dolt. You are not a dolt. You are very becoming and quite fetching at times, and I've treasured our time together. Thank you for being my friend. dear therese, you are my princess still. I will never think of you otherwise. ADDENDUM 2/24/2003 Here's another letter that I wrote you, and that I just found. I have a lot of them. dearest stephanie, thank you for your 100 love letters. I hope that the 26 I've written would recompense your effort somewhat. I'm too sleepy to equal your attention just now. All I can think of when I think of you is that bit in "Beautiful," on "3...6...9 points of light," when suddenly the guitar travels down the E string and the trumpet begins to sing.
 
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