Haunted by conversations of 4 July party last night, at a friend’s house, the company of many various neighbors, schoolteachers telling me poems must rhyme, former soldiers telling me the papers lie/force and secrecy is right/Iraq was “fun.” Wishing I were home to write and watch Portugal v. France. Instead ran for 36 minutes at lunch, touched the city line. Weeding through old bugs, listening to Bach Suites for Solo Cello, not my usual worktronica, but in headphones I can hear the performer’s breathing complimenting the physicality of the cello, an instrument I’d like to learn more of than to simply hold. A certain human fragility audible there, in player and chord, that quiets my speculation over what a boy in a baseball cap eating a hot dog checking his voicemail talking about Vegas then war had done.