January 4, 2001: The rebirth of my worst nightmare nears

I dreamt last night of a writing instrument—one that sat inside a glass case since 1938. Many had held the pen but no one purchased it. They’d scribble their names onto a small piece of paper creating a trail of several visitors. Within those unguarded territories grew the essence of ability yet not one learned the importance of silence. Let God talk and let the birds sing. The unsold writing instrument allowed me to build tiny bridges across invisible streams—for no mask could cover my face. It was time to face the truth and then write about it.