I want to tell you about my birthday, because I know you’ll get it. We’ll laugh about it, about the deep pleasures of simple things, of being free; and then we’ll talk about freedom and try to pin down what it looks like. And then you’ll tell me that you’re free, and I’ll chuckle to myself and think -free your thinking. But I’ll not say that out loud because you know, I don’t want to go too deep, because you’re not ready. But I want to pretend you are. I’m ready for the dream to come true -you know it, we’ve talked about it, but yet you’re still not quite ready. It’s going to be a fantastic ride, and I would have been, too (but then you know that); I wish you could come with me. But ke, this is life, and in life shit happens. So I can’t tell you about what I did for my birthday, or discuss the finer points of freedom with you, you’re not here. You’re not here; perhaps you were a dream, a foreshadowing of greater things to come.