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Comments on Tuesday 8 October 2002:
I got a confusing letter from the IRS today. It was sensible, and in my favour.
As you requested, we changed your account for 2001 to correct your interest and/or dividend income and schedule D.

The change resulted in a very small balance due. We want you to know about the change, but no payment is due. Our policy is to keep you informed, but we don't want to burden you by asking you to pay this amount.

If you have any questions, please call us at the number listed above.

(cut irrelevant tabular statement)

The small balance that you owed has been credited to your account. Your account balance is now zero.
This wasn't even just a completely ridiculous amount like 3 cents, either - it was $2.38 that they've written off. After all my complaining about tax people, I thought I should also give them credit where it's due - which is in the federal tax offices in Atlanta, not in the state offices in Virginia or Maryland. There's also a disturbing bit of form letter on there - "if the amount you owe is over $100,000...". If the amount anyone owes is over $100,000 then they certainly ought to stop piddling around with bloody $50 whining about things that don't even apply. [11:12]

Roses, Crushed Violet
We lay there together in pools of heat and shivers and broken mirrors. She mumbled dreams and slept. I waited patiently for daylight. It was darkness except the intermittent flicker of light in the corner of my eye. From some late night frantic, a speed car racer, or a flash lit patrol, occasionally reflecting off a painting or photograph. So many balmy collections of dried out memories. I remember now, her framed photos of reruns, classes, teachers, a brown eyed horse named Morris. Another flicker of schizophrenic light. A reproduction of a famous Monet momentarily glimmers then fades. Why is she surrounded with yesterdays and carbon copies of death? Itís strange and sad and depressing yet beautiful. Everything beautiful is dead or imaginary. Almost everything. All we can do is collect these tokens of what has been lost, I guess. I need a cigarette. I need to fill my head with chemicals and hysterias. The brooding presence of fresh air and solitude is suicide. We need fast paces and five degrees, twenty seldom friends, living relatives, on both sides, and occasional conversations. I need to hold a burning slice of death in my hand and consume it. Conquer my fear of living by slowly dying. She says donít smoke in the apartment. The veneer will crack and the books will swell. Carpet will smell. It already smells. The fire alarm will explode. It doesnít matter. She says not to smoke in here, anyways its bad for you. I love her. I think I love her- love her as much as I know what it means. Only lie occasionally, to protect her, to hide away seldom small pieces of my shadows. I get up, quickly, carefully shifting her brilliant form away and considering my options. Ill go outside. The public balcony. Itís rusty and always inhabited by scared victims of reality, melting and held together by bits of patience and patchwork. I need to scream death and breath epiphanies, deeply deep.

-james thatcher III
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