I don’t want to know too much about the enemy. I don’t want to know too much about my friends. I don’t want to know too much about anything more than what I already know, a nameless knowing that drifts down over me like bee pollen–this is the knowing that is rightfully mine.

Familiarity breeds contempt isn’t accurate. Familiarity unearths the bones of another’s slow death, a private affair, and anyone who’s so exposed grows resentful. Familiarity breeds resentment.

We’re better off waving to each other, each from his own mountain top, across valleys of green trees and deer; with the wind in our hair and a blue sky above, every detail smudged into vermilion.

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