Friday, July 4, 2008


When we were moving out of John Jay at the end of our first year, you made a list of all the stuff in your room, by category. Pitr insisted that you list him under "machines," and you obliged. On or about that day, we acquired a bundle of enormous Pixy Stix, and traded them to him one by one in return for goodnight stories. He told of a bee who sang "Woe is me, Bones." There were others that I don't remember. Afterwards he picked his way through the bright hallway strewn with half-packed suitcases, leaving a trail of Pixy dust.