Partying ain’t my strong point anymore. But hey! I got a trunkful of Florida water and briefings direct from heaven to favor your steps and if you’re feelin like I do watching the birds drop like snow when they hit the windmills—this ice nation rigmarole is no place for a black woman like you, where they profess to have hearts of tissue paper condolences. Your ship name is the S.S. I Told You So. Ha! Isn’t it? I see those flaring tendrils pop like an old neon light in a south Philly dive bar. Lookin down for all of Time shakin your pretty head so everyone can see those thick everlasting roses they call eyelashes. But when you look up over and into them they know which way the wind blows. God is gathering his cards on you girl. Gets all sanguine when he mentions your name. Anyway, I’m here anytime you need a lift cuz I know how you feel about what you got to work with down here. You’re so deep you won’t even bother with roads, you need an entire globe of motion to maneuver at will and even then you’ll never be satisfied.