In metafolics yesturday, as I sat with foil in my hair, I read an article in Esquire by Rudy Gulliani. In it he commented on how it was a mistake to think parts or your life end, that everything should be viewed in context with continuity. Along those lines, I suppose its a mistake to expect something more from the weekend then I do during the week -- to view it as something different. Still, I try though. I fill it with all sorts of things, but it hangs suspended both unsatiated and unremarkable.

I drove to Boulder last night with vague hints of plans that never came to fruition. What grew in its place was strange fruit. I did see someone for the first time who I use to adore, only to find out I still adore him. Maybe more then I knew at the time. Its odd how someone can simultaneously seem completely present and very far away. As if they're there, but just not for you. The grace of connection can be fickle. It's like in Six Feet Under, when Brenda talking about life turns to Nate and say, "You know what I think it's all about? It's all about timing ."

It's difficult when you sense that the moment is no longer eminent, isn't becoming -- but, instead, has been missed.