Striking a lighter may be the most intimate contact of my day.
Hear the quiet incantation of the uncle in the corner, hear my own breath in prostration.
The rare, forgotten feeling of knowing that someone else, someone responsible, is taking care of life for you.
I lived in a box in an apartment building, itself a collection of boxes, in a city, a large mass of boxes containing other boxes.
I belong to Richmond. Can that change?