There is an abandoned airfield, on an island, that I tried to photograph once, where I would like to take you, to see what you could do with the place. The old hangers are now covered in worn grey shingles and, at the top of a hill, up over town, it still seems too large and out of place. Even Faulkner came up there to learn to fly, during WWI, and you should come too. I could show you the end of a road, where I lived, that stops into Lake Ontario, down limestone ledges that step through long beaches into the bay. You could describe what you saw up the hill and we could sit on the rocks. And we could hang our toes there and think about sliding down into the water.