"L'autre à qui l'on croyait pour un rhume, pour un rien
L'autre à qui l'on donnait du vent et des bijoux
 Pour qui l'on eût vendu son âme pour quelques sous..."

What do you say after thirty years of radio silence? Thirty years of loss and love and sacrifice, of pain and bliss and misaligned trajectories— Birthing, screaming...

Of soothing songs in the middle of night
 and broken arms and long kisses

Did you find your revolution? Did you lie wasted with gods and kings? Chase the lizards in wild abandon, foaming at the mouth and smiling? Were you a warrior? A slave? Did you recognize evil in a back room and slay it quietly as others slept? Did you dream in technicolor or live in black and white? Were you wise or hard or trembling or insane? When the planes hit and the towers fell did you weep? Or shrug or recoil in horror behind a bitter cup of espresso?

Did you dare to howl?

After thirty years... What do you say?
You say nothing. You smile, you laugh, you drink. And it's soothing; and it's fine.

What's hurtful about the passage of time isn't that we change; it's that we don't. We only exhibit the superficial effects. But in the end there is solace to be found in the eyes of our generation, from those who knew us on the cusp of greatness, electric with sex and potentiality, winged and blind, racing towards the sun. In friends
                    and fellow time travellers... 

 À bientôt.