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[For Mark] From a child, I would, on rare occasions, look at a thing and sense from it a timeless, ineffable outreach. “Look at me. Notice me. Remember me. You’ll wish you had.” What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten Stephen Stills, Southern Cross Whenever an object craved my attention like that—inanimate, not, foreign, familiar—it was as though, for that occasion only, something glowed in my bone, flashed in my wit, or vibrated … Continue reading If on a Summer’s Eve a Writer