Where is the wherewithal to write I wonder. How to get my head around a five antimeridiano telephone collect call from Rome. I miss him I miss him. He warned me about the Frankfurt airport, said it was a Kafka nightmare industrial maze and the whole place smelled of urine.

He called again yestermorning from Bologna and said he loves Italy, and he wishes I were with him there. He felt like weeping because it is so beautiful and he wants to share it with me, wants to walk along the tree-lined streets and drink red wine and shop in the open-air markets with me.

I'll be there soon. Only 25 days until I find him in Domodossola.

In the mean time and it is mean time I'll eat and sleep and work and dance and dance and dance.