What used to come typeset from ink on ribbon, that coveted response from some literary giant, Plimpton in Paris, erudite praisers of prosaic gist in the NY-ersatz opening. Of the flood gates, so long forlorn & closed off to visitors, friend or foe, at bay while sadness looms, blankets the known universe of selective thinking. A new day bleeds out from the old. Try hope? Just a smidgeon lest the inevitability of disappointment take hold, so soon, after crumbs of possibility scatter, abide, span the globe.