Kuumba at Aché in New Orleans
As I write this I hear fireworks exploding in the neighborhood. Hello world, it's 2009, and in 19 days we'll be having a black president.
At a time historically when conversation is for the most part a lost art, I am amazed that the only people talking are those trapped next to each other on flights or in prison cells on lockdown, or on sinking ships once the last lifeboat is filled. Conversation is not the penalty for isolation, but often it feels such.
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