Leonard Cohen's voice echoes around the room like the soft drumbeats of an eight-pound canon. I cannot focus on his words, for they are much too simple and much too gray. The lights in here are dim, and so is the mood. We sit around and talk about nothing. Forever and ever and ever. You don't like that? I ask her. She ignores me and I ignore her back, so goes the story of the nighttime and the tribes of the kings of the killers of beautiful flowers. The dandelions and the drugs. Where are they all going? I want to go with them. Oh, please, father, let me go with them. I never get to ride the wagons! I want to ride the wagons so badly! Who shall I say is calling? Who by something-something? I want to ride the wagons; I want to sit in airplane runways that are the wooden seats. I want to feel the moon rocks and peaks and subterranean landscape that is the road ahead. I want to sleep on the open plains. I want to watch the stars at night, and I want to know no one. Oh, can you hear the wolves? The coyotes? Can you see the herds of buffalo? I can see smoke, but I cannot see why. Perhaps they are travelers as well. Perhaps they are chasing us. Perhaps we are chasing ourselves. Perhaps we are chasing a mythical beast. Perhaps we are babies and we do not know if we will ever grow up. This is true, but the smoke. I mean, look at the smoke. That is what is important right now. We do not have much water, and we are running low on supplies. The cornmeal is almost depleted. We should go meet them. We should travel with them. It will be better for all of us. It will be safer, you know. It will be, oh, so, much safer. And we will be happier. It is good for us to have company. Perhaps they travelers will be a young family. Perhaps there will be little girls and they will play with our girls, and a pleasant young wife to talk with you, and a hearty father-type to compete with me. It could be good, you know. We will go meet them. I mean it. I am the father. I am the king. I am the hero. I am the master of your destiny and mine as well. No, no, no. What if they are robbers? Or thieves? Or Indians, or commies? What if they are something much, much worse, like a drowning man? What if they are all dead and diseased? Forsaken, almost human? He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone. Who did? And you want to travel with him, and you want to travel blind, and you think maybe you'll trust him because he's touched your perfect body with his mind. Who? You want to travel where? I'm so confused. What is that? What the hell is in your hand? Is that a knife? Get away from me! Girls! Girls! Run! Run to the smoke.

And you want to travel with her. And you want to travel blind. And you know that you can trust her because she's touched your perfect body with your him. They are not departed or gone.

They were waiting for me but I could not go! I could not go. They brought me their comfort, and their cookies, and their tender mercies, and their pomegranates. I love pomegranates. Have you ever eaten an apple-banana? No, but I have seen pictures. Surely I have. Soon it comes round to your soul. When you're not feeling. Holy. This. Could. Be. The. End. Of. The. Road. Ackkch. I. Am. Dying. Help. Me. I touched the dew and I began to feel better. Suddenly, miraculously-this here is the amazing part-suddenly, all of my wounds began to heal. My arms and legs grew back, and my internal wounds unwounded themselves. It was amazing. I felt so refreshed, so whole, so perfect, and so sweet. We weren't lovers, my limbs and I, but we surely need each other. Without them, I would be incomplete, and without me they would not exist.

Come over the window, my little darling. I'd like to try to read your poem. I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy, before I let you take me home. Now so long, Mary Anne. It's time that we began to laugh, and cry, and cry, and laugh about it all again. Well you know that I love to live with you.

Rebecca. You look wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Wow. Amazing.

Thanks. So do you. You look good. So very good you look.

My dearest. Oh my dearest. With yourself these past six years you have been occupied with what?

For asking, I thank you. Studying at Yale I was for the first four of the past six years. Helping the Résistance in Spain I was occupied with for the last two years. Running guns, I was.

For the side of which you were running guns? For the side of the Republicans, of course, my dearest. For the sake of liberty. For the sake of all things sacred. It has been dangerous. But worthy. When they poured across the border, I was cautioned to surrender. This I could not do. I took my gun and vanished. I have changed my name so often. I have lost my wife and children, but I have many friends. And some of them are with me. And old woman gave us shelter, kept us hidden in the garret. Then the soldiers came. She died without a whisper. There were three of us this morning, I am the only one this evening, but I must go on. The frontiers are my prison.

The frontiers are my prison.

The window is blowing. Oh, the window is blowing. Through the graves the wind is blowing.

The frontiers are my prison.

The frontiers are my prison.

We must go meet them! Perhaps they are friends. Perhaps they are family. Perhaps your father has forgiven you for marrying against his wishes. Perhaps he has forgive you for running away to sea with the shiftless lad that I was. Perhaps he has sent his best regards. Perhaps he has sent money and supplies. Perhaps he has come himself. We must go. We must meet them. We cannot pass up this chance.

Oh my sweet. I loved you in the morning. Your kisses deep and warming. Your hair upon the pillow, like a sleepy golden storm. Oh my precious husband. You prince. You strong and wonderful man. That is not my father. It is not, oh, no. My father is dead. I lied to you. Nothing I have said it true. I am a liar. I am so, so, sorry, my sweat. My prince. My lover of me. I am not what you think. I am not your wife. I am not a woman. I am not a being. I am a figment of your mind. I do not exist, I never have. I am so sorry, my lover. I have waited too long to tell you. And this is not all, my precious, this is not all that you must know. What? What? You are dead. You are not living. You died when you were seventeen. But I love you still and still you love me. We are not. Anything. At. All.

It's three in the morning, the end of December. I am just keeping some kind of record. And she came by with a lock of your hair. She said that you gave it to her that night that you planned to go clear.

Did you ever go clear?

LETTERS FROM READERS