What happens when you're too much on the highway

The wedding. It's too big for this box. Still can't quite believe M has come and gone. She is more womanly in a pinch of years, or more horrifically, of hours. The bride was lovely in green gown and white sash. The groom as dignified and solid as I recalled from a sunny day last year in Berkeley. The reception hall held a hundred and a jazz bandstand. Outside, the waters were wrung loose and my yellow umbrella couldn't quite cover me, JN, and V, the erstwhile confidante and fellow sensitive girl/emergent artist/immigrant baby/maker of things.

* * *

I reject mostly what is said in "Lysis", so where then do we return for treatises on friendship? The distance doesn't help. Neither does the rush of external demands on time and decorum. Meanings were well and lost. The rain helped us sleep, but she woke earlier and sat alone in the other room. My story was glanced at on the title page; her drafts of verse a lightly sifted heap already crawling with other commentaries. The guitar was awkward witness.

* * *

If a knows b and b understands a so well, then why does each feel misplaced in his little allotment in the wunderkamer? Has there been an earthquake we didn't read about?