22:25// Watching some boring show on ghosts, I remember the video of you on your 29th birthday, cooing, think of this teleopera by Robert Ashley. I am sorry. I love you.
22:38// So, I can simultaneously sync the lighting of the old factory space with the teleopera and with the lighting of the old Williamsburg Savings Bank, the new Williamsburg Arts Center (something I noticed scouring a map for restaurants recently). I remember an early January morning, so crisp and new, the Neoclassical dome shimmering in the 21st-century light, your arms wrapped around me as we looked out, through that window you would similarly look out, half astride the elliptical, by yourself that final morning, across the expressway and the viaduct towards the scaffolding then obscuring the clock face, the clocktower on The Commons still standing then, “You’ll see the scaffolding being taken down,” you said, or something like it, the last hyacinth, white, was half-dead when you left that morning. Never buy me things that I have to watch die. Thank you. I love you. I will always have been sorry. I will always forgive.