We have never minced words here. Garlic maybe, but not words. I am an asshole. To the marrow. I come by it honestly. It may be why I will never pass that gene on. This may be the most telling essay of who we are, if any of those who know us are trying to find us. But why would the be here? How? This land so far away from each other and all who think they matter. We have said everything to each other and yet we still have more to be said. Best not to be thought stupid, best to prove it, at least here. This is the year. What that means is yet to be found, but this is the year. Tomorrow could knock me off my feet, or it could throw me into the sky for a ride I have no preconceived impression of. I saw something this week. Something that made me think. I like thinking. Thinking makes me bleed, and bleeding lets me know I am alive. And I need to know I am alive. In my thinking, I got to thinking. You, until more recently, have always kept your eggs separate. Each one had their own basket and the baskets were not allowed to touch. For many years this was the case. Until the past few. When baskets spilled over into each other, and all was still right in the world. Except for one or two, but a rotten egg or a basket in a basket is hard to avoid sometimes. With this new position amongst your eggs, you have shown me how hard boiled I am. My eggs are all in my head. Poached, fried, scrambled or simply boiled, they each have their own basket in the same vessel. It’s time to make some room. Too many baskets. Maybe the eggs can exist together without the need for separation. It’s time to find out.