You are spinning a world around, and I think of a candy apple. Caramel over the north pole, dripping down warmly. This room which is not yours except in penal terms stays still for you while you spin with your arm out the window. We had to remove the screen. I say, "Today, responsibility is often meant to denote duty, something imposed upon one from the outside. But responsibility, in its true sense, is an entirely voluntary act; it is my response to the needs, expressed or unexpressed, of another human being. To be 'responsible' means to be able and ready to 'respond'." You are spinning a world around outside my window. "Erich Fromm," I say. Actually, it doesn't start to rain. It hasn't rained for some time now. I want to be able to say, "It starts to rain." The noise of the fan becomes noticeable, again, but I don't worry because it will fade. Only with the knowledge that it has faded will it make noise. Now, I listen to the fan. While listening, I recognize my desire to kiss your shoulder blade and touch the back of your arm almost too softly for you to notice. I want to close my eyes in your hair. These things, however, must remain unrealized, not because I've never done them and there is a line, but because... The world has frustrated you and it swings from your hand out over the downstairs neighbor's roof. It arcs through the branches of a tree and falls, bouncing twice, on the far side of the road. The pavement is cracked there. There is no blood. What sort of casualty is this? | 
