Dear Kiki,

I don't believe in the sun.

With trees such cruelty in winter-no shade or all the time I think of where it went. Usually I feel this pressure of content on the picture of trees which move back from the memory of fall in Southern Ohio -a simple way of color coming clean on a palette that only a cloudy sky can provide. It's hard to believe in sunny days when there are so many of them. I'm looking out, steering clear of all non-sequiturs, pushing toward a sublime that typifies the beauty of a birthday party for you, Kiki Courage, whom I just may love enough to put the sun back in its place in the sky. This is only one part of the I LOVE KIKI MARATHON, where you come in glowing; a literal golden girl-all golden hair, creamy golden dress, chunky golden shell necklace, and glossy make-up. My sun, you are my sun! "God I feel like my life just flashed before my eyes-not to mention all those really heinous haircuts." I'm having a hard time these days distinguishing the difference between Hollywood , life, and you, Kiki Courage. You, who blend all three into one tight golden package that my life revolves around. My solar system is distracting me from the work. Desire/Disaster. You are not at the marriage of scandal. We have only got to look at the sky to escape it. Nothing can be omitted. Experience drunk, experience sober. Compulsions are never civil.

In the blondeness of you, I find not a cloud in the sky. At this point, I realize you are more than just a novelty, my Kiki Courage, my sun. I move from your face outward. Yes, once you've seen something, it remains in your memory. With you, days pass to night, to days beginning again at the end. I'm smitten. I no longer believe in the sun.

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