New York, February 16, 1996

I am in the mill, one of these grains that managed to stay whole...when is it my turn to be in the grinder getting to be part of something bigger. Just a single grain, what if I am out of it, get lost, get swept away, thrown away. Or am I turning into a micro unit, a little part in the flower used to create something else. A single grain, I guess doesn't make a loaf of bread... You cannot see over Washington square parc...It is dipped in big snow flake-white which slowly covers everything like a fringy carpet. I like how snow deletes colors, how it eliminates your sense of space, while the flakes seem to dance very near. When you're watching for a long time you think you're falling, falling deep. I want to stay under the earth here and watch the flowers, it must be warm down here, once I melt, be a drop slowly going on the ground feeding a little spring flower. Maybe not, maybe I need to feel the tension between what I live and what I want. Maybe we all need that?