Each thing speaks of itself and in speaking names, refers, connects others into the fabric of things. Each day has its own menu, then corn becomes maize eggs become Benedict and so on, pushing us along until we stop, waiting, until we realize that time never was about fair shares. Time began as waiting and so continues, as the weather moves yet does not go away. Wait for it to matter, perhaps not to surprise, but still count, enough, like a share. The measures of time are as notes to chords to stanzas, seconds to minutes to hours, quantities, almost persons grasped like stones rather than abstractions scattered across pages deconstructing an unfinished aria turning everything to caricature. If the key can be changed, the tempo altered, the symphony redeemed we might all stand smiling under the whole expanse of sky where a share is equal for those who seek it. Here again the speaking, naming, referring, connecting. Then it is out into the night which is less than too anything so you leave the sweater on the veranda. But the weave reminds you of Einstein, the fabric of space, and the needles of time piercing your skin dragging you along by the pores, and this is what counts for an inner life. Yet the fabric is there comforting your anguish because it IS there. And this is what counts for History – what you find around the corner, in a bar, at the office the moments when you pause are the life you have. History without dates is infinity, the grand abstraction refusing to be tamed by our notions of fairness acting like a God.